


how can I not be moved (by you)

by Ann1215



Series: skts fluff week 2021 [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, First Kiss, Fluff, Halflings, M/M, Sakusa Kiyoomi is A Sap, Slow Burn, Surprisingly Domestic, Warlocks, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:47:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29103534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ann1215/pseuds/Ann1215
Summary: Kiyoomi heads over to the plants in the corner by the large windows, reaching out towards him as he approaches with a spray bottle.“Stop that,” he chides. “Being clingy isn’t a good look.”“Aww, but these guys wear it so well for ya, though.”It takes nearly everything in Kiyoomi to not jump, tensed at the unknown presence. He turns around to face the intruder, and amends his expectations when he realises there’s two of them.The man who’d spoken smiles with a lazy twist to his mouth, and Kiyoomi might have been too focused on the plants earlier, because one look at this tall, handsome blonde with the familiar sitting beside his feet, is enough to tell him that this man’s presence demands the attention of those around him.In the span of five seconds, Kiyoomi’s decided he does not like him.***In which Kiyoomi owns an apothecary, and Atsumu is the newest warlock in town.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Series: skts fluff week 2021 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2160846
Comments: 66
Kudos: 364
Collections: Haikyuu!! Fics, SakuAtsu Fluff Week 2021





	1. found me here

**Author's Note:**

> work and chapter titles taken from the lyrics of 'everything' by lifehouse
> 
> this has been consuming me for the better part of January and I'm still not completely happy with it, but I also just wanted to get it out
> 
> please enjoy one Sakusa Kiyoomi's gradual descent into romance

Kiyoomi’s willing to admit he’s pretty set in his ways—routine was a comfortable crutch to wield menacingly at others whenever anything threatens to throw him off. It was something he’d inherited from his late grandfather, from afternoons spent peering over the countertop as he watches sure, wrinkled hands separate both harmless and deadly magik ingredients into jars, bottles and flasks in his apothecary, his own then-stubby fingers imitating clumsily.

The apothecary was an inheritance as well—and a constant exercise in mastering control over the entire shop, with how _finicky_ some of the products in there can be.

What he hadn’t inherited, however, was his grandfather’s eternally sunny disposition.

The majority of that probably went to Motoya.

“Are you sure you can’t let that skull go for cheaper?” His cousin wheedles at him, brown eyes blinking slowly, slumped pathetically over the counter, like it’ll get Kiyoomi to hand over one of the few crow skulls he has left in his inventory, just like that.

(To Motoya’s credit, Kiyoomi usually does end up giving in to the other man’s whims, but the skulls were hard earned. He had a photo of Hinata’s weeping face to prove it.)

Kiyoomi huffs, the sound muffled behind his mask. “Are you going to pay for that newt eye in your other hand as well, or do I have to get a witch to put a curse on you?”

Motoya laughs in response, straightening up as he places down the jar of newt eye on the counter, right beside the skull. As Kiyoomi watches, a figure appears next to the two items, morphing into the shape of a brown weasel with a wad of notes in its mouth. It’s only because Kiyoomi knows there’s no actual saliva on the cash that he gingerly takes it from Motoya’s familiar, but the weasel snaps the last note back between its teeth, walking away to drop it in the tip jar that Motoya himself had placed there four years ago when Kiyoomi first took over the shop.

Even without counting, Kiyoomi knows it’s exact cash for the skull and the eye, but he does it anyway, if only to stare at Motoya’s grin.

“If you were going to do that, why the hell did you make me go through that charade?”

“ _Oji-san_ always said it’s good to keep you on your toes,” Motoya answers cheerfully, placing his newly acquired items in his rucksack as the familiar heads back to sit in front of Kiyoomi, upper body swaying towards him in an unmistakable manner. It doesn’t take much to convince Kiyoomi to reach out with his right wing, the yellow tips stroking the familiar’s back once, twice, ending with a gentle tap against the edge of its jaw, purring as it leans into Kiyoomi’s feathers.

Motoya glances between them. “Sometimes I think you spoil Kohi more than I do.”

The familiar’s nose twitches at its host’s voice, before it chirps, disappearing and then reappearing to rest around Motoya’s neck, nuzzling at the man’s ear.

Kiyoomi lets himself smile at the admittedly adorable sight, but immediately drops it when Motoya turns to look at him again.

“Is that all you needed?”

Motoya nods, slinging his rucksack back around his shoulders, but something crosses his expression and he glances at Kiyoomi, smile slightly sheepish this time. “Oh, don’t know if you’ve heard, but a couple of brothers just moved into the apartment beside mine. I bumped into one of them this morning; turns out he’s a warlock, but he’s looking to start making potions as well.”

There’s a prickly feeling in the back of Kiyoomi’s neck, as his wings flutter. “You didn’t mention this apothecary.”

“Kiyoomi,” Motoya exhales in exasperation, shaking his head. His familiar somehow doesn’t budge despite the movement. “Some advertisement for the shop wouldn’t hurt!”

And while the apothecary’s doing well enough, thanks to his grandfather’s reputation and his growing one, he does get Motoya’s point of view; he knows that without the witches and the warlocks and the herbalists in town, there would be no use for him to keep the place open, but at the same time—

“You know how I feel about new people in here.”

“They’re not passing travelers,” Motoya insists. “Seems like they’re here to stay.”

One of them a warlock—like his cousin, then. The warlocks and witches in town are usually nice to him, considering he’d grown up helping out at the apothecary by his late grandfather’s side, and he wouldn’t have any trouble throwing out any unwanted visitors, thanks to the guards around the apothecary. Still, he only says, “I’ll ask a shaman to get Grandpa to haunt you if anything happens to the shop.”

Motoya laughs, and his familiar disappears for a moment, before reappearing under his jacket collar, brown nose peeking out. “He’d be way too preoccupied with more important things than to haunt either of us, but I’m not taking that chance. I’ll let the warlock know he shouldn’t try to mess with you or the apothecary, then.”

It doesn’t take long before Motoya leaves, and Kiyoomi heads over to the plants in the corner by the large windows, where the winter sunlight is at its strongest during this time of the year. They reach out towards him as he approaches with a spray bottle, vines brushing up gloves, sleeves and to the edges of his wings, leaves fluttering despite the still air of the shop.

“Stop that,” he chides, spritzing water over them carefully. “Being clingy isn’t a good look.”

“Aww, but these guys wear it so well for ya, though.”

It takes nearly everything in Kiyoomi to not jump, but he’s incredibly aware of how his wings are fluffed up behind him, tensed at the unknown presence.

When he turns around, he’s managed to steel his expression into something bordering on boredom and consternation, wings back to their normal wingspan instead of its previously threatening position. There are a few stubborn vines clinging to the crook of his elbow, but he ignores them for the time being to face the intruder in his apothecary. 

Kiyoomi amends his expectations when he realises there’s _two_ of them.

The man who’d spoken with the twang of an accent earlier smiles with a lazy twist to his mouth, like he hadn’t just walked in unannounced. And Kiyoomi might have been too focused on the plants earlier, because one look at this tall, handsome blonde with the familiar sitting beside his feet, taking the form of a red fox, is enough to tell him that this man’s presence demands the attention of those around him.

In the span of five seconds, Kiyoomi’s decided he does not like this new warlock Motoya must have been speaking of.

“Are you looking for something?” he asks brusquely. In the back of his mind, he sees his grandfather admonishing him with a look.

The other man blinks, but the smile doesn’t disappear. “Yeah, actually. Have ya got one o’ those hemlock plants?”

Kiyoomi frowns at him. “We require a written binding agreement for anyone wishing to buy highly poisonous items to confirm they won’t use it for harm.”

“That’s cool w’me.” The grin hasn’t wavered, but the familiar has begun pacing slowly around the warlock’s feet, glancing up at Kiyoomi with unblinking amber eyes, fluffy tail swaying behind it. Kiyoomi doesn’t want to know what the warlock plans to do with the hemlock, and the request sends an uncomfortable feeling down his spine.

But the other man has given his agreement, so Kiyoomi nods, quickly leaving to head towards the storeroom in the back, where he keeps the more… _Exotic_ items.

He’s been handling the likes of hemlock and mandrake roots since he’d reached his grandfather’s shoulders, but it still causes him to shiver with trepidation knowing that he’s selling such a poisonous plant to a stranger.

When he returns to the front, plant safely encased in a cloth bag, the blonde man is inspecting the charms by the counter.

“Am I really gonna find the love o’ my life if I carry this around w’me?”

At that, Kiyoomi doesn’t even bother rolling his eyes.

“I’m sure you’ve got plenty of love spells up your sleeves for that.”

The warlock snorts—Kiyoomi notes with mild irritation that it does nothing to detract from the man’s attractive features—and places the _en-musubi_ back on the pile it came from. “Okay, yer not the first one to think so, but ‘love spells’,” and Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow, because the other man is actually doing air quotes like it’s 2012, “Leave a disgusting taste and they’re not even close ta the approximation o’ love anyway.”

There’s not much Kiyoomi can say to refute that, so in lieu of a response, he places the cloth bag on the counter, before reaching down to take out a file where they keep the binding agreements, as well as a pen. “Hemlock’s 4000 yen. Sign here.”

Kiyoomi relishes the pinched look on the warlock’s face at the price, but the man signs anyway, carefully picking up the bag afterwards. He leaves with a wave, and calls out, “I’ll see ya again soon!” before walking out of the shop, the fox trailing by his side.

With a sigh, Kiyoomi looks down at the agreement. _Miya Atsumu._

He really hopes that’s not the case.

* * *

The gods don’t grant him his request. (They seldom do.)

Three days later, Miya Atsumu returns, but Kiyoomi is behind the counter this time and thus, has a front seat to the way Miya enters the shop with careful steps, glancing around the shelves before his gaze lands on Kiyoomi.

“Oh, yer here,” he drawls, foxgrin stretching his mouth wide. The air ripples for a moment, and then his familiar materialises by his feet, yipping once.

Kiyoomi places down the jar of powdered beetle dung he’d been cleaning, folding the cloth and placing it in his apron pocket. “I work here, and I own this shop,” he points out, not even bothering to keep out the snark from his tone.

It doesn’t seem to deter the warlock, because he’s walking further in, and Kiyoomi takes note of the dark purple shadows under large brown eyes that weren’t there last time. Absently, he wonders if it has anything to do with the hemlock he’d sold Miya just days before. Miya stops a few feet away from the counter, and his familiar leaves his side to nose around the nearby shelves. The grin grows wider.

“I see ya got jokes behind that mask o’ yours.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t reach up to fiddle with his mask. He _doesn’t._

Instead, he stares Miya down, noting with satisfaction that despite the warlock’s formidable height, he still has a couple of inches over the other man. “Are you looking for anything specific today?”

Miya cocks his head, expression deceivingly innocent. Kiyoomi’s not sure if it’s ever worked for anyone, but he merely watches on, before Miya smiles again.

“Ya got any crushed snake bones ‘round here?”

Kiyoomi mentally flips through his inventory, internally sighing when he remembers receiving a small shipment two weeks ago. “Are _habu_ bones alright with you?”

Dark brown eyes bug out, causing the shadows underneath to look more stark against his skin, and even his fox familiar has stopped nosing around the vines draping down the walls to look back at them, ears flicked back. “How the hell did ya get those?!” The fox slinks back to Miya’s side, but the warlock doesn’t seem to pay it any mind, watching Kiyoomi with something akin to shock and wonder.

Kiyoomi shrugs. He never questions Wakatoshi’s methods, and he’s never had any reason to do so. “It’s 6000 yen per 100 grams,” he answers instead, and has the vindictive pleasure of seeing Miya’s eyes grow bigger.

“That’s daylight robbery!”

“It’s a fair price for the bones of one of the most venomous snakes in Japan.”

In the end, Miya ends up paying for 250 grams, and Kiyoomi carefully measures out the exact amount, a smile ticking up the corner of his mouth behind his mask as he watches Miya part with his cash, the familiar traipsing behind him as they leave the apothecary.

He wonders if the next time he sees the warlock, Miya Atsumu would finally learn to not mess with such dangerous ingredients. 

At least he’s going to single-handedly keep Kiyoomi’s apothecary afloat, if he keeps this up.

* * *

Born to a shapeshifter and a human, Kiyoomi grew up watching his mother regularly perched on his father’s broad shoulders, bright green and yellow feathers catching sunlight as she shakes out her wings from time to time.

And when she wasn’t near her husband, Kiyoomi would watch as she flew around their neighbourhood, periodically returning back to their yard, the edge of her wings grazing his own when she swoops down low enough, the rush of air ruffling his curls.

In her human form, Kiyoomi’s mother was as dazzling as the plume of her colours—dark-haired, hazel eyes that watched Kiyoomi with care, and then later on, confusion tainting the edges of her love the first time Kiyoomi had a breakdown over the dirt in his fingernails after an exuberant afternoon in the sandbox.

(The confusion left; Kiyoomi’s aversion stayed.)

It was his father that bought him his first pair of gloves. His grandfather who taught him to live with the choking reality of billions of germs and bacteria all around them, and his mother who helped him to slow his breathing every time he felt the need to claw himself out of his own skin.

They gave Kiyoomi routines to live by as he learned to live through his fear, and he clings to their patience and understanding through them until all that was left by the time his wings grew large enough to carry him in flight was merely irritation at visibly grimy surfaces.

When the wings came in, it was his mother that sat him on her lap first, his brother and sister on each side watching as she preened his feathers. Nowadays, he does it alone, but it’s still one more thing that keeps him tethered, despite the now rising urge to feel wind brushing through a black expanse and yellow tips.

(Kiyoomi breathes out; it’s been six months since he’d flown.)

Recently, he’s starting to realise that yet one more routine is being trusted upon him, without his permission.

It only takes Miya two days before he appears in Kiyoomi’s apothecary again—the purple underneath his eyes has lightened considerably, but there are bandages around the tips of his fingers now as he waves cheerfully when he catches sight of Kiyoomi by the shelves with the liquid items. The fox is here too, walking ahead of its host this time.

“Yer here again!”

The jar under his hands shakes a little, but he manages to place it back with no harm done to either of them. “I feel like I should be saying that to you,” he says dryly. “Don’t tell me you’ve used up all of that crushed _habu_?”

Miya balks, one hand dramatically going up to his chest as his familiar emits a little clicking noise, and of course the fox is as expressive as its host. “Are ya insane? I’m not usin’ all o’ that up in one go!”

There are Hinata’s and Bokuto’s theatrics, often unallowed in the shop, lest they accidentally open the door to the other realm (one close call was more than enough), and then there is Miya’s absurd sincerity in his defence against Kiyoomi’s half-hearted observations. It pulls a snort out of him, despite how much he tries to stifle it.

Unfortunately for him, Miya evidently hears it, and his expression turns more foxlike than ever, eyes hooded in its readiness to tease.

“Wow, finally made ya laugh.”

“Barely,” Kiyoomi snaps back. “What life-threatening item are you after today then, Miya-san?”

The teasing look disappears, replaced by a frown. The number of expressions Miya can make under a single minute is almost enough to give Kiyoomi whiplash at this rate. “Ya can just call me Atsumu, Miya makes me think o’ my brother.”

Right. There’s _two_ of them.

And then Miya—Atsumu stares at him. “Wait, ya know my name, what’s yours then?”

At that, Kiyoomi’s brow furrows, wings tensed up behind him. “The shop’s called ‘Sakusa’s apothecary’.”

Fox ears twitch as Atsumu straightens up. “Oh! Then Sakusa…?”

The clumsy way Atsumu goes about trying to get his name nearly causes Kiyoomi to throw him out, but he reminds himself that if Atsumu had any legitimately harmful reasons to find out, the shop itself wouldn’t have let him in, in the first place. “If I tell you, are you going to buy something and leave?”

“Sheesh, ya drive a hard bargain.” Atsumu fixes him with a glare, before it smooths out into one of those foxgrins that Kiyoomi is beginning to recognise as something that precedes his annoyance. “But fer a handsome guy like yerself, I’ll spend my coin here fer ya.”

Kiyoomi sighs, feathers ruffling with the irritation he’d predicted. “Sakusa Kiyoomi. What can I get for you today.”

“Oak bark strips,” Atsumu replies.

Fairly innocent. And then the warlock adds, “Oh, monkshood root too.”

A sigh leaves him again. He’s going to have to change out his mask earlier than he usually does, at this rate. “I’ll have to get you to sign the agreement again. For your information, if you purchase more than five high-risk items in a month, you’ll have to go on the public records with detailed explanations for the purchases.”

Atsumu whistles, his familiar’s ears flicking back once more as it pads over to its host’s side. “I’m just tryin’ to pick up a new craft!”

Despite his reservations, Kiyoomi can’t help his curiosity. “You’re not a potions master?”

“Nah,” Atsumu waves a hand carelessly, “My brother’s the herbalist in the family.” The hand freezes, and then he snaps his fingers once.

The _omamori_ charms on the small table to Atsumu’s right begin to gently float. There’s a scent of ozone and peppermint, barely sharp enough for Kiyoomi to notice, but it’s the way Atsumu’s familiar is gently glowing that gives it all away.

“I’m more into spells, myself.”

Spellwork and charms—considered the most complex of the magik branches and yet, Miya Atsumu wields his energy like he was born with magik dust clinging to every part of him.

The warlock allows all but one of the charms back down, and lets the remaining one drift over to the counter, walking right in front of it with his hands in his pocket until the charm is placed right before Kiyoomi.

When he looks down, it’s a purple _kotsu-anzen_ , an amulet for safe travels, the ones young magik folk usually buy when they’re going on a study trip.

Without prompting, Atsumu answers his unasked question. “My brother’s leavin’ for a bit—he’s looking for some plant, rehmannia?”

He butchers the name completely, and it breaks the odd tension that had arisen when the warlock demonstrated his magik earlier. Kiyoomi nods in acknowledgement. “He sells herbal medicine, then?”

Atsumu flashes a smirk, and beside him, his familiar’s tail swishes in a lazy arc. “Among other things.”

Ah.

One of _those_ herbalists, then—the ones who walk with a seemingly permanent sleepy gaze sometimes, mind almost too sharp for their own good. Kiyoomi shuts down his thoughts before they could wander over to whether Atsumu partakes in said “other things” as well.

He rings up the warlock’s purchases without any more interruptions after that, but from the corner of his eye, he watches Atsumu’s familiar batting at the vines hanging low from one of the shelves. Atsumu doesn’t seem to notice, but Kiyoomi knows that’s not true. Atsumu signs the agreement again, and Kiyoomi thinks that’s the last of him for today, but—

Atsumu turns back around when he reaches the doorway of the apothecary, and he grins; a sense of dread fills him this time, before:

“See ya soon, Omi-kun!”

An involuntary noise escapes from Kiyoomi’s throat as the door closes right behind the blonde warlock and his familiar.

* * *

These days, Kiyoomi does his own preening, but there was a time (before the gloves, the mask, the way his own clothes felt like it was scratching at his skin) when there would be three, four hands deep in his wings, gently fixing wayward and ruffled feathers as he watches his older sister learn to shift into her animal form under their mother’s patient guidance. His tail feathers had also started growing a few months after the stubs on his back appeared, and it had been a learning process to figure out how to sit without crushing them.

“Stretch out for me, Kiyo-chan?” His father strokes across the length of his right wing, merely the length of one arm at this age. He does so, nearly smacking his older brother in the face, judging from the offended yelp behind him.

“Careful, birdbrain,” he hears, before wincing at the tug of his tail feathers.

“Sorry, nii-chan, but it’s not like I can see you,” Kiyoomi pouts, and their father laughs, deep chuckles felt through his feathers.

The women in his family giggle as well, his sister’s arms replaced by the bright red and yellow plume of her smaller wings, halfway between her shift form before he feels small hands ruffling his hair.

These days, Kiyoomi thinks of his father and brother’s fingers a little more, cautious and slow on one side, practiced and sure on the other as he glances up at the mirror in front of him, right wing bent over his arm, cross-legged on the floor. He winces when he stretches a little too fast while reaching around to put some of the ruffled feathers into place at the back of his spine.

It’s painstaking, having to contort his body this way, but it’s that or wait for new year’s or Golden Week when the rest of the Sakusas can gather together again, and Kiyoomi’s not inclined to keep his feathers taken care of only twice a year.

It takes another half an hour before Kiyoomi’s satisfied with the condition of his wings, the glossy black hues glinting in the late afternoon sunlight spilling across the tatami mat of his bedroom, and he moves on to his next task, grabbing a mask and his bag before leaving to do his groceries at the store six blocks down.

Not for the first time, Kiyoomi sends a quick prayer of thanks to his grandfather for setting the apothecary up in such a convenient location in town all those years ago.

But if he thought he was going to have a quiet afternoon getting ramen and umeboshi candy before spending the rest of his only day off on his own, he was sorely mistaken.

“Oi, Omi-kun!”

His wings, which had been hiding him from most of the other shoppers, had evidently given him away to his most regular customer at this point, but that doesn’t mean Kiyoomi has to react to him.

“Omi-kun, if ya stare harder at that ramen packet it’s gonna boil right in yer hands.”

Gods damn it.

Kiyoomi tears his gaze away, visibly sighing as he looks up to see that infuriating grin on Atsumu’s face. It’s been a week since he’d last seen it. “Miya.”

The grin shifts, and Kiyoomi successfully pushes down his own. “We’ve been over this, Omi-kun, it’s Atsumu.” The warlock glances at the ramen in his hand, and to the basket by Kiyoomi’s feet, before shaking his head in clear incredulity, and that causes Kiyoomi to narrow his eyes.

“What’s that look for?”

Atsumu’s gaze drifts up to meet his stare head-on; there’s something about being able to meet someone’s eyes at his level for once, and Kiyoomi doesn’t know if he can truly shake off the prickly feeling in the back of his neck when he watches dark brown eyes take in the sight of Kiyoomi without his apron, his gloves, wings still slightly huddled around him in a clearly defensive stance.

The feeling doesn’t really go away when Atsumu looks away.

“Just surprised at how… Unhealthy yer diet seems to be, ‘s all,” he answers, and before Kiyoomi could come up with a retort, adds, “Ya know what, as a sign of my appreciation’ for supplyin’ me with the herbs my asshole brother wouldn’t, lemme cook dinner for ya.”

Huh?

“Are you going to poison me?” is what slips out of his mouth.

“The hell, ‘course not!” Atsumu balks, and from behind his legs, a red figure appears, yipping at Kiyoomi—he thinks there’s indignation in the fox’s tone, and that simultaneously aggravates and chastises him, that Atsumu’s familiar had appeared in response to his admittedly stupid question. “Unless yer allergic to like, chicken, then maybe I might have unintentionally tried to poison ya.”

“I’m not,” Kiyoomi replies, instead of the apology lingering in the back of his throat. He shifts the grip of his basket, counts to three as the fox walks forward, stopping mere inches away from his feet. “Did you recently clean your home?”

Atsumu’s brows furrow as he cocks his head to the side—Kiyoomi fails to ignore the way his familiar’s head is tilted in the exact same way as both of them regard Kiyoomi’s words. “I swept the place yesterday, but I can just spell away any dust if ya see it.”

Right. Warlock.

Three hours later, Kiyoomi finds himself in front of the door next to Motoya’s apartment, freshly baked brownies in his hands and sorely regretting his decision to accept Atsumu’s invitation. He’s just glad his cousin’s not in town to see him staring down the door, torn between pressing the doorbell or just waiting to see if the occupants inside will notice the way their home’s protection wards are curiously prodding at him.

The decision gets taken out of his hands when the door swings wide open, and for a long moment Kiyoomi wonders if Atsumu had spelled his hair grey instead of the pale blonde he’s used to, and if it’s possible for Atsumu to have _two_ familiars.

Then the man blinks at him a couple of times, the white owl on his shoulder giving a small hoot, before he says, “Oh, yer the reason I’m being kicked out for the next two hours.”

An incensed voice yells back, “Oi, Samu! Get yer ass away from the door!”

Grey-haired Atsumu rolls his eyes, but he does step aside and gestures for Kiyoomi to enter. “Come on in,” he says, bowing slightly. The owl doesn’t move a muscle, large beady eyes boring into Kiyoomi. “I’m Osamu and this is Ryuko, you’re probably the apothecarist Tsumu’s been hounding for the past couple of weeks.”

“Sakusa,” he offers, lowering his head in return, aware of the way the wards lower around him as he steps into the _genkan._ “Sorry for the intrusion. Thank you for inviting me into your home.”

From around the corner, Atsumu’s familiar pads over towards them, fluffy tail swaying in greeting. Its host’s voice follows right behind, before the warlock himself appears, expression pinched as he glares at his brother. “I told ya ta leave half an hour ago, why the hell are ya still here?” And then the glare shifts towards Kiyoomi. “He didn’t do jack shit, _I_ invited ya!”

“He let me in, but I could just leave now as well,” Kiyoomi replies, and he moves to cross his arms before remembering he’s got a tupperware of brownies in his hands. The movement catches Atsumu’s gaze, though, and the fox has come closer, its snout close enough to sniff at Kiyoomi’s fingers.

“Aww, did ya get desserts on the way?”

Kiyoomi bristles at that; cooking isn’t his forte, but baking was something he’d watched his father do on a regular basis growing up—one of his crowning achievements as a twelve year old was successfully baking a slightly lopsided three-layered lava chocolate cake for his sister’s birthday. “I made them,” he answers loftily, and adds, “The brownies probably won’t kill you, but the dinner remains to be seen.”

Before Atsumu could do more than frown, Osamu clears his throat from beside Kiyoomi, effectively cutting through the oddly tense atmosphere growing between them. “If ya don’t stop flirtin’ in the _genkan_ , I’m takin’ those brownies with me to eat with Rin,” he smirks, before nodding at Kiyoomi. “Nice to meet ya, Sakusa-san. If ya do end up killin’ my brother, feel free to help yerself back to all the dangerous shit he’s been buyin’ from ya.”

The fox that had been nosing around the edges of the tupperware backs off with a yip, dematerialising in the instant it takes Atsumu to yell obscenities at his brother as Osamu and Ryuko leave the apartment without another glance.

“I’m gonna put a gallon of water in yer precious bonsai plants, ya asshole!” Atsumu finishes off with a huff as the door closes behind them, and then his shoulders slump in clear defeat. “Stupid Samu,” he mutters, shaking his head, and looks at Kiyoomi. “Come on in then, food’s almost done.”

With that, he turns back around, leaving Kiyoomi to follow him as he walks further into the apartment, a mirror image of Motoya’s next door, glancing around. Evidence of their recent move is everywhere; there are boxes still stacked up by one corner of the living room, the couch is positioned weirdly and the walls are bare except for a few pictures of the twins and presumably their friends, judging from how close in age they all seemed to be. But the place does seem to be clean, as Atsumu had promised earlier.

When he enters the kitchen, he’s met with the sight of Atsumu’s broad back, arms reaching up for something in the cabinet in front of him—there’s a pot boiling on the stove, a wooden spoon stirring on its own, and two places at the table being set, glasses, cutlery and plates arranging themselves.

There’s a stronger scent of ozone and peppermint this time, mixed with something _savoury-spicy-homey_ and when Atsumu catches sight of him, Kiyoomi thinks he glimpses something glittering in that blonde hair.

“Ya mind if I levitate that o’er here?” Atsumu asks, but even as he speaks, the tupperware container is already leaving Kiyoomi’s hands. Kiyoomi narrows his eyes, but he doesn’t say anything, knowing it would probably only rile the warlock up into teasing him more. “Have a seat, Omi-kun,” he adds. That causes a sigh to leave him, but he thinks of Osamu’s words and holds onto the hope that perhaps Atsumu might accidentally poison himself somehow and Kiyoomi won’t have to lift a finger.

He heads over to the sink to wash his hands thoroughly, shoulders unintentionally hunching at the feeling of those dark eyes on him before sitting down at the dining table, large enough for six occupants. Kiyoomi watches as Atsumu arranges the brownies he’d baked on the plate he’d pulled out of the cabinet earlier, and then walking over to the rice cooker, two bowls floating beside him.

The kitchen was never Kiyoomi’s element, with the exception of his above average baking skills, but it’s difficult to not wonder how Atsumu’s current journey with potions-making is going, with how at home he looks bent over the pot, one bowl of rice settling in front of Kiyoomi. Thankfully, Atsumu doesn’t levitate the pot of chicken curry over to the dining table, choosing to physically carry it instead.

Both of them say their thanks, Kiyoomi under his breath and Atsumu a little louder, and then there’s a ladle spooning curry onto his rice, just the right amount of sauce and meat. Kiyoomi stares.

“‘S charmed according to yer preferences, and anyone else eating from the same pot,” Atsumu explains, and there’s more than a hint of pride in his voice.

“Invasive,” Kiyoomi says, just to be contrary.

Atsumu scoffs at him. “ _Convenient_ ,” he refutes, but he still waits until Kiyoomi takes the first bite before eating.

As much as Kiyoomi had been ready to be disparaging about the meal, he can’t deny that it’s definitely good fare; wholesome and tasty, and a lot more filling than his ramen dinner would have been. He keeps quiet as he continues to eat, and silence passes like that between them for a while before Atsumu starts to speak again.

“How long have ya been runnin’ the shop?”

“Four years, give or take. How long has it been since you started trying to brew dangerous concoctions?” Kiyoomi fires back without missing a beat, and that tiresome grin shows up for the first time since he’d entered the Miyas’ apartment.

Atsumu leans back, tapping his chin with the clean end of a chopstick. “Three weeks, give or take? And not all of ‘em are dangerous, they’re just… Incredibly experimental.”

A little before he’d first walked into the apothecary, then. “I’m surprised you’re not injured,” he answers, but something passes across Atsumu’s features, almost too quick for him to see. “Wait. You were.”

“No—”

“Is that why you haven’t been in?”

Dark, curious eyes snap back towards him. “Did ya miss me, Omi-kun?” Atsumu asks delightedly.

“If you were harmed by something I sold at the apothecary, that would not be good for my business’ reputation,” Kiyoomi points out bluntly, and a part of him finds some sort of dark satisfaction mixed with the taste of guilt when Atsumu flinches.

The pot vibrates for a quick moment, before it settles and the warlock flashes him a smile. “I wasn’t really injured, so don’t worry yer pretty head about it. Your _business’ reputation_ is safe w’me.” He picks up his chopsticks to continue eating, and Kiyoomi follows his lead.

Eventually, Atsumu does start talking again, asking about the town and Kiyoomi volunteers the information between bites of delicious, perhaps-not-poisonous curry, and the rest of dinner passes in a somewhat peaceful manner.

The brownies are still warm when Atsumu serves them, and Kiyoomi figures the plate had some sort of heating enchantment on it, but he’s distracted by the way Atsumu’s expression is open in clear awe and shock when he takes his first bite of the treat, staring up at Kiyoomi with one cheek bulging. 

(Kiyoomi doesn’t spare a second to think if Atsumu knows how infuriatingly adorable he looks. He _doesn’t.)_

“Omi-kun! How did you not open up a bakery instead?!”

Kiyoomi shrugs, and swallows his own sweet mouthful before answering, because he’s a halfling, not a heathen warlock with zero table manners. “Don’t think I would have liked the hours.”

They leave a few brownies aside (“So I can eat them in front of Samu,”) and Kiyoomi volunteers to wash the dishes; Atsumu accepts his offer easily, but “I’ll help clean up too, some of the enchantments ‘round here are kinda unstable since this is a new place and we’re still gettin’ used to it.”

It’s odd how easy they move around each other in the kitchen, or perhaps it’s the enchantments Atsumu speaks of, but between the two of them they get everything cleaned up pretty quickly. Atsumu even manages to get Kiyoomi to bring home some of the leftover curry in Atsumu’s own tupperware, and tells him with a flippant, “Ya know I’ll be droppin’ by one o’ these days anyways, I’ll just get it back from ya then.”

Kiyoomi leaves the Miyas’ apartment sometime around nine in the evening, two tupperware containers in hand, wings fluffed up, stomach full of good food and contentment, and a new number in his phone.

* * *

Atsumu keeps his word, entering the apothecary two days after their dinner together—he talks about how his brother had managed to steal the last brownie, before they’d gotten into a scuffle over the dessert because Osamu had yelled at him for keeping the brownies to himself.

Kiyoomi passes the containers back, but they come back with more food—hearty, home-cooked and in the arms of an overly talkative blonde warlock with a penchant for snooping around the clearly labeled shelves of hazardous items, the fox either at his heels or perched on the counter, and it’s only because Kiyoomi knows that familiars are usually semi-ephemeral and can’t pick up dirt that he allows it.

(It’s not because he likes to hold impromptu staring contests with it whenever he catches it staring at him, the fox’s tilted head admittedly cute enough for Kiyoomi to consider petting it.)

Somehow, he starts finding himself at the Miyas’ place every other week, too, because “I probably have half o’ yer containers in my kitchen, ya might as well come over and get the leftovers yerself,” and Kiyoomi says yes, because he did it the first time and feeling the guards around Atsumu’s place gently lower themselves around him every single time makes his chest tighten with something too close to vulnerability. The Miyas’ apartment begins to take the shape of a home too, and Kiyoomi feels a kind of privilege of being able to witness it happening somewhat in real time.

And Atsumu keeps coming back as the days pass; half the time he’s not even buying anything, content to ask Kiyoomi about the new products that have come in, courtesy of his suppliers, building some sort of well of knowledge as sharp eyes track Kiyoomi’s movements in the shop.

There’s no reason why Kiyoomi doesn’t just throw him out during these times, but he thinks Atsumu knows that he’s started to watch the warlock back in response, and that’s.

Kiyoomi doesn’t know what that means, yet.

Around three months after Atsumu had nearly given Kiyoomi a heart attack the first time he’d showed up in the apothecary, Atsumu arrives at the shop sometime near the evening, a black mask covering half of his face, blonde hair looking somewhat windswept and the strongest scent of ozone and peppermint clinging to him ever since that first time Kiyoomi had breathed it in.

Kiyoomi stares, and fiddles with the elastic of his own mask. “Copying me now, Miya?”

A high-pitched yip appears from somewhere near his legs, and he looks down to see ears flattened and a mouthful of sharp teeth bared at him right beside his feet.

“Don’t flatter yerself, Omi-kun,” Atsumu replies, cocking his hip out, but there’s a wavering in his voice and even with the mask on, it’s easy to see the warlock’s obvious exhaustion.

“Are you falling sick?”

Atsumu raises his brows, before his shoulders relax. “Oh, I’m not contagious or anythin’ if that’s what yer concerned about—just, ah, came back from an overnight job,” he answers, waving a hand flippantly. “A couple hours o’ sleep and I’ll be fine.”

Still, while that might explain the slight swaying of Atsumu’s figure and the unmistakable scent of magik, the mask itself still throws up question marks in Kiyoomi’s mind, and he presses, “Then what’s with the mask? You can’t think they’re doing a good job at hiding those eye bags.”

The familiar whines at the same time Atsumu does.

“Wow, Omi, holding back’s not yer strong suit, huh?” the warlock gripes, but there’s a hint of something in his tone that Kiyoomi can’t pin down, something akin to apprehension; he doesn’t get to say anything else though, because Atsumu turns to fully face him, and tugs his mask down with a sharp jerk.

_Stars above,_ Kiyoomi thinks, and immediately berates himself internally for sounding so dazzled at the sight in front of him.

Atsumu scratches his cheek as Kiyoomi stares at him like a loon, dark eyes shifting as he turns away, but it only displays the dusty, golden constellations sprinkled across Atsumu’s skin in a better light, like freckles adorning the highs of his cheekbones, the slope of his nose and even on his cupid’s bow.

“It doesn’t usually stay this long, but I also didn’t wanna go to yer place and get it all messy,” Atsumu explains, and there’s a red hue on his cheeks, accentuating the golden dust on tan skin, his accent thicker than usual. Kiyoomi’s eyes zero in on the tiny speck of dust clinging onto Atsumu’s top lip. “Hence the mask. And before ya ask, it’s useless spellin’ ‘em away, ‘cause they’re magik traces and need to fade naturally or some shit.”

Kiyoomi’s well aware that he needs to _say something_ before Atsumu thinks there’s something wrong, but all his mind can conjure is the fact that Atsumu looks quite, well.

_Lovely._

With the proof of his magik strength written all over his face, literally, and how he stands up tall still despite his clear embarrassment, because traces don’t always manifest themselves in such a stark manner; only magik users whose cores have been shaped to the very essence of their magik hold that honour, one borne of skill, talent and perseverance.

The flushed cheeks are an unexpected bonus that Kiyoomi’s startled to find himself appreciating a lot.

All of these thoughts cross his mind in the blink of an eye, and he thanks the gods that his voice is its usual dry, measured tone when he answers, “If they eventually fade away, it’s fine. You don’t have to wear the mask.”

_Something_ brushes against his leg, causing him to jerk, and he glances down to see a black snout nosing at his shoes.

_“Akari-chan,”_ Atsumu hisses, and the fox dematerializes, only to appear again on the counter, its back facing Kiyoomi.

He’s treated to a series of ludicrous facial expressions on Atsumu’s features as the man somehow communicates with his familiar with zero verbal exchange taking place, arms waving around, but eventually the warlock lets out a heavy sigh, shaking his head at _Akari-chan_ and running a hand through his hair before looking back up at Kiyoomi. The fox gives another one of those yips before reappearing back beside his legs.

Some of the dust had spread over Atsumu’s jaw, and when Kiyoomi continues to stare, he can pick out several golden flecks in the warlock’s pale hair as well.

Kiyoomi has never known magik traces to be so… Sparkly.

Perhaps that was a contributing factor towards Atsumu being so obviously flustered, but to his credit, the warlock’s smiling again, the unusual shyness from the past couple of minutes all but gone now. “If ya say so, but I’ll try my best to keep them ta myself anyway,” he says, before covering up that smile with his mask, leaving Kiyoomi feeling strangely bereft. “Also, sorry about Akari-chan,” he continues, and from the narrowing of his eyes, Kiyoomi thinks he’s probably grimacing. “Ya can always tell her to back off if she’s bothering ya.”

“She isn’t, currently,” he shrugs, and feels something in his chest shift when Atsumu blinks at him curiously. “You on the other hand should go home.”

“What? Why?!”

A huff leaves his lips, and when Kiyoomi bends down to take a couple of items under the counter, Akari backs off just enough to give him space, but her tail still grazes the edges of his lower wing, and he flicks his gaze at the familiar.

She bares her teeth, tongue lolling out, before stepping back to sit on her haunches.

“Don’t do that again,” he says quietly. Akari merely tilts her head in reply. Kiyoomi thinks she gets the message, because she’s facing his legs again instead of his wings.

When he straightens back up, Atsumu’s still there, dark eyes boring into him, and Kiyoomi grabs a paper bag before placing the small jars of chamomile and valerian root tea leaves, as well as clover honey that he’d grabbed inside it, keeping his head down. He places the bag between them, and finally looks up again. “Go home and drink a cup of either one of these. Add as much honey as you’d like for taste. Don’t come back until you’ve got some decent rest. I’m not going over for dinner until you’re well enough to disinfect your home too.”

And Atsumu blinks at him like he doesn’t understand the words coming out of his mouth, and Kiyoomi exhales, pushing the bag closer towards the warlock. “Take it,” he grinds out. “If you come back looking like death still, I won’t hesitate to throw you out on your ass.”

That finally breaks whatever trance had come over Atsumu, because he startles, before huffing indignantly, “Is this how you treat your best-paying customers?”

Kiyoomi snorts; that title currently still belongs to Hoshiumi. Still, he replies, “Only the sleep-deprived ones.”

At that, Atsumu laughs like Kiyoomi had just told him one of the best punchlines he’s ever heard, head thrown back in a terribly loud cackle and Kiyoomi watches as the gold specks seemingly float all around him, illuminating that mad foxgrin he’s growing accustomed to.

But it does the trick; Atsumu takes the bag, and Akari leaps onto the counter to give Kiyoomi one final twitch of her nose before she takes her usual place at her warlock’s side. Atsumu gives her an indecipherable look, before it disappears when he meets Kiyoomi’s gaze.

“Thank you for this, Omi-kun,” he says, and Kiyoomi doesn’t know how to handle yet, the sudden weight of sincerity that Atsumu drops into his lap with a few words.

All he can do is nod, for now, and Atsumu leaves with one last glance, taking his constellations, distinctive magik scent and overly-friendly familiar with him.

* * *

“Did you know that people can tell if you’re smiling or not, even with the mask?”

Motoya’s been back for one week, and Kiyoomi wonders if blood relation is enough of a hindrance for poisoning, disregarding any other moral scruples that are probably attached to that idea. His wings bristle slightly as he deliberately does not meet his cousin’s eyes. “Your point?”

He sees Motoya leaning further against the counter beside him, but then his attention is arrested by Akari, who’s currently examining the cabinet where he keeps the more commonly requested herbs, which means they’re not expensive, but Kiyoomi would still have an annoying time replacing them if anything unfortunate were to happen.

Akari sneezes right against one of the jars, causing it to wobble from the force, and Kiyoomi sighs.

“You’re paying for any damages incurred by your familiar,” he calls out, and Akari does her usual disappearing-appearing act, forming in an instant on the counter and startling Motoya badly enough that he accidentally dislodges Kohi from his shoulder with a yelp. The weasel hisses at the action, vanishing in mid-air and Motoya sighs. Kiyoomi thinks about Motoya’s words from earlier, and _doesn’t_ grin when Akari’s mouth hangs open as she stares up at Motoya.

“You know Kohi doesn’t like jump scares,” he pouts down at Akari, who barks back.

Thankfully, Atsumu comes into view before Kiyoomi starts to wonder if Akari was going to pounce on Motoya, levitating a basket filled with a number of small pots and bottles by his side. “Akari-chan,” he admonishes, “Yer supposed to be scaring bad folk, not our nice neighbour and his familiar. Hey, Komori-kun.”

“Atsumu-kun,” Motoya beams, and his familiar pops up on top of Atsumu’s head, causing the warlock to jolt, but the basket doesn’t even budge from its position, and he continues walking until he’s right in front of the counter. “Oops, sorry. I guess Kohi’s in a bit of a mood.”

Kiyoomi watches Atsumu’s grin widen when Kohi nuzzles at his ear, little chirps escaping from its throat. “Well, he doesn’t seem ta have any issues w’ me,” he replies, setting the basket on top of the counter next to Akari, and frowns at her. “Akari-chan.”

The fox snaps her jaws, but when Kohi jumps off of Atsumu to butt against her nose, she pushes back gently.

Both warlocks seem to heave a sigh of relief, and Kiyoomi starts ringing up Atsumu’s purchases, grimacing when he takes note of the dried hollyhock flowers. “You do know there’s a pharmacy a couple of streets away, right?”

“One o’ these days, yer gonna stop judging my purchases, Omi-kun.”

He can hear Motoya repeating that inane nickname under his breath, but keeps his gaze ahead, placing everything carefully in a paper bag. Akari and Kohi’s eyes are fixed on his hands, but he pays them no mind. “That day won’t be coming anytime soon if you keep this up. That’ll be 2300 yen.”

Atsumu snorts, but his easy smile stays, reaching for the bag with one hand as he hands the cash over to Kiyoomi and keeping the other a few inches away from Kohi, who sniffs his fingers, before proceeding to lick them, letting out a chirp.

The smile on Atsumu’s face transforms into something almost too fond for words, and Kiyoomi is struck with the thought of how comfortable Atsumu’s presence must be to have another warlock’s familiar be so openly affectionate with him. When he glances at Motoya, there’s nothing but joy in his expression as he watches Kohi nuzzle into Atsumu’s open palm.

(Perhaps the warmth of Atsumu’s presence might not be bound to only familiars.)

And then Atsumu directs that same smile at him, brown eyes soft and crinkled at the corners, and for a moment all Kiyoomi can see are constellations and magik dust in a foxgrin that he’s suddenly sure will star in his dreams from now on.

_Ah._

It seems this routine might be here to stay for the foreseeable future.

“Yer still coming over later, right?” Atsumu asks, hugging the paper bag close to his chest. “Thinkin’ of makin’ _sukiyaki_ since Samu just went shopping the other day.”

Motoya’s stare practically pins him down in place, but Kiyoomi’s had a lifetime’s practice of doggedly avoiding inquisitive looks, thanks to the mask, gloves and the way the majority of his wings’ plumage is a threatening ebony, large and imposing in their stature. “I don’t think your brother would have anything good to say about you stealing his groceries.”

“That asshole’s always tellin’ me I gotta cook more often, he shouldn’t be complainin’,” Atsumu answers with a huff, Akari yipping along with him. “Anyway, I’ll see ya at home then, Omi-kun. See ya around, Komori-kun!”

“See you, Atsumu-kun,” Motoya replies, and Atsumu leaves the apothecary with one last grin, taking Akari, his circumspect purchases and a little bit of Kiyoomi’s breath along with him.

Barely a moment passes before Motoya literally whirls around to face him, poking at his wings and earning a hiss from Kiyoomi, one that doesn’t even get acknowledged with the way Motoya’s gaping at him in shock. “Since when were you two a thing?!”

Kiyoomi glances at him, decidedly not fidgeting with his gloves. “He feeds me dinner, I pay him back with baked goods. There is no ‘thing’.”

His cousin, by virtue of having grown up side by side with him, neatly side-steps that denial with a graceful, “You look at him like he could make you fly, Kiyoomi.”

“That’s awfully poetic of you, Motoya.”

A sigh escapes the warlock, but there’s still a curl to the corner of Motoya’s lips, enough to put Kiyoomi not exactly at ease, but.

“I lied just now,” Motoya says lightly. His familiar is looking between them, nose twitching as it gauges the current situation between both men. “Of course no one could tell if you were smiling just from the mask alone.”

Kiyoomi continues to watch him, wordlessly urging his cousin to get to the point.

Motoya must see that, at least, because he chuckles, reaching out to scratch underneath Kohi’s jaw as he adds, “All they had to do was look at your tail feathers.”

“My tail feathers?”

“Mmhmm,” Motoya nods, his smile downright mischievous now. “Did you know you wag your tail sometimes when you talk to Atsumu-kun?”

* * *

They’re eating _daifuku_ after dinner, nearly half a year since Kiyoomi first laid eyes on that now-recognisable foxgrin, when Atsumu asks, “Do you ever fly, Omi-kun?”

The wings on Kiyoomi’s back flutter, as if they’re subtly egging Kiyoomi on to answer the question, but he tamps down the urge to spread them, not least because they’re currently sat in the Miyas’ kitchen, which was definitely not built for a halfling with the wingspan that he possesses.

“I do,” he replies. “Haven’t gone in a while, though.”

Atsumu hums, licking the back of his spoon. It’s disgusting, and yet all Kiyoomi can summon are thoughts of how endearing he looks with the faintest of magik traces in his hair, honey brown eyes watching him curiously. “Why ‘s that?”

Kiyoomi stares back, before looking down at Akari, who’s curled up right beside his feet under the dining table. He’s shared parts of his childhood with Atsumu, at the other man’s prodding, which is how he’d found out that half of Atsumu’s circle were fox shifters, that he’d had plenty of major fights with his brother but none more devastating than the time Osamu decided to switch his magik courses to herbology halfway through their education, and that the de facto leader of their pack was a young human who had a rice farm and a steel gaze sharp enough to cut through any signs of trouble.

It’s how Atsumu knows that Kiyoomi had practically lived here his whole life, even as his siblings, and then his parents had moved away to other parts of Japan; they keep in touch, and they come back for the major holidays, for the most part, but.

He finally settles on, “Flying alone’s a bit of a chore,” and of course Atsumu wouldn’t be content with that.

“But ya can _fly!_ I mean, not all avian halflings do, right? And—” he pauses here, long enough for Kiyoomi to look back up and take in the blush that’s spreading across his cheeks.

“And?” Kiyoomi prompts, taking a sip of his tea, when it doesn’t seem like Atsumu would continue any time soon.

Atsumu starts in his chair, dropping his spoon—it stays afloat in midair, though, and Kiyoomi thinks back to that one dinner where Atsumu had nearly spill a bowl full of hot broth, only to have the liquid _stay_ inside, morphing into some sort of gelatinous form before Atsumu could place it back on the table. “And. I, well, ya don’t gotta say yes, ‘course, but if it’s just being alone that bothers ya, maybe I could, uh. Come along?”

It’s Kiyoomi’s turn to be clumsy, but he manages to cover it up with a flick of his wrist, keeping his grip on the cup steady as he places it down on the table. Under the table, he feels the gentlest brush of fur against his pants, and Akari doesn’t make a single noise when Kiyoomi continues to observe Atsumu’s terrible poker face as he fiddles with his spoon.

“Why would you want to?”

Atsumu’s head whips back up to look at him. “Huh?”

Kiyoomi clears his throat, glancing at the cup of tea before him, before deciding against it. “I’m not… Saying no. I’d just like to know why you’d want to come along.”

“Oh. Oh!” This time, Akari’s tail curls around Kiyoomi’s ankle, and he suppresses the urge to bend down and pet her—he’s not sure why he’s held off on touching her after all these months, but Akari never takes more than Kiyoomi allows himself to give, and he hasn’t really found a good occasion to breach that gap between them yet. “I, uh. It’s not like I can fly with ya, but ya got these really gorgeous wings, Omi, and ‘s a shame ya don’t get to use ‘em all that often. If all ya needed was company, maybe Akari-chan and I can be there with ya, until ya fly on yer own, at least.”

The blush had deepened as Atsumu stutters through his response, but his gaze is unrelenting; Kiyoomi has been under the scrutiny of that particular look more often these days and he’s starting to learn that Atsumu, for all his loudness and bluster, might know all too well what it means to _fly alone,_ even when he doesn’t have the wings to prove it.

Wait. Gorgeous?

He blinks once, twice, before saying, “You think my wings are gorgeous?”

At that, Atsumu goes positively red while his familiar squeaks, tail tightening around Kiyoomi for a second before the pressure disappears completely. He doesn’t need to look down to know she’s gone, so he keeps his sight set on her host instead, who’s suddenly not looking at him anymore.

“I—they’re… Nice-lookin’,” Atsumu says at last, and Kiyoomi suppresses the urge to tease him for the pout on his lips. “They suit ya. The black’s kinda imposin’ at first but the yellow tips are… Brighter than I’d expected from ya, but ‘s not bad.”

Kiyoomi lets him stew in his embarrassment for a little longer, but eventually he picks up his tea, sipping it before answering, “My mother’s a cockatoo shifter, so I got the yellow tips from her.”

“Did ya fly with her a lot?”

He thinks of warm summer mornings and windy autumn evenings, chasing a speck of green and yellow in the distance, the loud calls of his sister’s own shape shifting form ringing in his ears. “When I was younger, yeah. My sister, too. There was a mountain about an hour away from here, and we used to go together, with my brother and father as well.”

Akari materialises on the table when he’s done talking, and he gets twin gazes locked on him this time, with both warlock and familiar tilting their heads to stare at him in quiet consideration.

It’s unfairly _cute,_ and it causes something in his chest to sting.

The pain intensifies when Atsumu shoots him a close-eyed smile, the one that’s unbearably soft and expectant at the edges, cheeks bunched up and pale blonde hair just the slightest bit unruly. Kiyoomi’s eyes are fixed on the bridge of his nose, where a cluster of magik traces twinkle at him.

“When should we go?”

* * *

Late September is starting to verge on a little too cold for flying in the mountains, but Kiyoomi has attempted flight in worse weather conditions.

He glances over at Atsumu, bleary-eyed and dozing off against the window of Kiyoomi’s grandfather’s old pick-up truck, still well-maintained after over a decade. Akari’s nowhere to be seen, but Kiyoomi has learnt to expect her presence whenever Atsumu talks to him, or trails behind him in the apothecary, or simply watching him like all he’s ever wanted to do was peel back Kiyoomi’s layers with a dumb remark and a quick flash of his smile. 

The road is well-travelled in his memories, but he shifts his gaze forward anyway, despite the lack of other vehicles this early in the day. The skies are still a little too dark for it to be morning, and Kiyoomi doesn’t have to look to know the moon’s still shining above them.

It’s quieter than the trips he remembers, but he doesn’t mind it. Atsumu’s presence fills the void well enough.

By the time he pulls into the parking lot, the sun has just started to rise to their right, and Atsumu wakes up with a shiver and Akari on his lap, blinking sleepily at their surroundings. A part of Kiyoomi wonders why he’d agreed so quickly to Atsumu’s proposition of… Accompanying him, but another thought, new and intruding along the well-built walls of Kiyoomi’s mind, tells him to take in the way excitement begins to make itself known in Atsumu’s expression as he sits up straight, fingers tapping at the door handle.

“We’re here, Omi-kun?”

It doesn’t mean Kiyoomi has to be _nice_ all of a sudden, though.

“No, I’m selling you off to a supplier in the woods right beside us. Yes, we’re here. Come on,” he replies with an eye roll, lips twitching up when he hears Atsumu’s predictable grumbling as they get out of the vehicle. Kiyoomi reaches for his bag while Atsumu takes a basket filled with a thermos, cups, two bottles of water, some snacks and a couple of blankets, and just like that, they start making their way up the mountain.

They come across a few people on the path; a mother and her child, whose horns have just started growing out, an elderly man with wings the shade of freshly fallen snow and a couple of cat shifters that Kiyoomi vaguely recognises from their visits to his apothecary, but for the most part they trudge on without stopping, the air growing warmer with the sunrise.

Atsumu’s chatter is more subdued than usual, but Kiyoomi attributes it to the fact that the warlock also feels the presence of _other beings_ nearby, ones who have made homes in the mountain for longer than either of them have been alive. None of them are inherently malicious, but Akari sticks close to their legs anyway, occasionally butting against their calves, like she was guiding them away from certain areas just beside the path.

The walk up to the summit takes a little under an hour, and by the time they reach the peak, the sun’s already up above the horizon, but the winds are cold enough that Atsumu clutches his jacket a little tighter around him as he sets down the basket. Kiyoomi waits until Atsumu lays out the blanket before he places his own bag down, Akari nosing around it.

“You can look after it while I’m gone,” he tells her, and she yips in reply, sitting back on her haunches.

Atsumu laughs as he sits on the other end of the blanket, pouring some tea into a cup with a flutter of his fingers; another blanket, this one looking considerably worn, floats out of the basket to wrap itself around Atsumu’s form. “Now ya’ve gone and done it; she’s not gonna let that thing out of her sight.”

Kiyoomi shrugs; it’s only his clothes and wallet in there, but he appreciates Akari’s supposed vigilance.

“Ya want a drink before ya go, Omi-Omi?”

He turns back towards Atsumu, who's got a cup floating between them. Before he can answer, Atsumu adds, "Ah, I already wiped it down and everythin'."

Kiyoomi has the faintest inkling that the gods must be laughing at him right now, as he blinks stupidly at Atsumu, hands reaching forward to take the cup that's been cleaned for his benefit. The slight smell of antiseptic is barely apparent under the green tea, and he allows himself one quick smile before removing his mask, eyes flicking back up to meet Atsumu's. "Thank you," he murmurs, taking a sip.

He's not sure if the warmth in his chest is from the drink, or Atsumu's beaming, proud smile.

“So how do ya usually do it, Omi-kun?” Atsumu asks after a couple of minutes, cupping his own cup with gloved hands, nose visibly pink from the cold air. “I’ve never really seen ya spread yer wings but then again, you’d probably knock into everythin’ at that shop of yours if ya did.”

There’s no helping the instinctive twitch of his lips as memories come flooding in at the thought of learning to fly—his mother had been, well. Rather _encouraging_ in that aspect when his wings and tail feathers started growing, and there were plenty of small hills around their neighbourhood that she’d take him to before they gradually moved to the roof of their home when Kiyoomi’s wings were strong enough to keep him airborne for more than ten minutes at a time.

And then when Kiyoomi turned twelve, his mother said, “I think you’re ready, Kiyo-chan,” and she took him to the skies.

In the present, Atsumu looks at him eagerly, the morning sunshine settling on his hair like a halo.

Kiyoomi wants him to keep watching.

So he takes his jacket off, carefully placing it on top of his bag, and sets his cup down as well. With a customary ruffle of his feathers, Kiyoomi spreads his wings for the first time in front of Atsumu.

It’s worth it to keep his eyes fixed on Atsumu’s expression, because the other man’s jaw _drops,_ honey-brown eyes widening in shock and unbridled awe as he clutches his cup of tea, gaze skittering all over Kiyoomi’s figure before settling on the wings once more.

“Holy _shit,_ Omi-kun,” he breathes, and Kiyoomi allows himself to smirk.

Some avian halflings don’t bother learning to fly, since modern transportation negates the necessity of flight in this day and age, but Kiyoomi’s family had always held on to the older beliefs and customs, the ones that highlighted the _otherness_ of their ancestry. While he’d felt a little stifled by the way his mother took so much pride and joy in her shift sometimes, he’d also been grateful more than once for the fact that she’d taught him the gift of flight. It meant that his wingspan is larger than most halflings his age, nearly reaching thirty feet across at their widest, capable enough of carrying him in the air for upwards to two hours at a time.

With Atsumu’s eyes on him, Kiyoomi takes a few steps towards the edge of the mountain’s peak, where a well-known pile of boulders are placed, ostensibly to keep most people away from the edge.

He’s well aware that he’s not most people.

Kiyoomi eyes them, and takes a deep breath before unlacing his boots, mentally going through the routine he’d refined over the decades: shoes and socks off, first, followed by—

_“Where we’re going, you won’t need your gloves, Kiyo-chan.”_

_“But the dirt—”_

_“The gods don't mind a little bit of dirt if we want to play in their skies.”_

When Kiyoomi reaches the top of the pile, shoeless, gloveless and maskless, he gingerly twists to take in Atsumu one last time, before he lets himself be swept up by the clouds.

And Atsumu stares like Kiyoomi is something that shouldn’t exist, his own existence a splendid gold wrapped up in a ratty blanket and Atsumu’s cup floating beside him, mouth still agape and eyes unblinking.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be,” Kiyoomi informs him. There’s no way to tell time when he lets his more avian instincts settle in; even now, he’s sure his eyes have started to pin at the thought of flying once more, and a restlessness is beginning to settle on his shoulders.

Somehow that breaks Atsumu out of his stupor, and he jolts slightly. “Take as long as ya need,” he replies with a wave of his hand. Behind him, next to Kiyoomi’s bag, Akari’s tail wags and Kiyoomi nods at them both.

“Thank you,” he says simply. Kiyoomi turns back around, vision becoming clearer and brighter as he takes in the beautiful sight of an endless blue sky and a mountain full of memories, before taking one huge leap over the edge, a loud, breathless laugh leaving his lungs when he hears Atsumu’s shout of surprise.

* * *

“You didn’t say ya were gonna jump off the damn mountain! Nearly gave me and Akari-chan a heart attack!”

When Kiyoomi lands back on the summit where he’d left Atsumu, the sun has noticeably risen higher in the distance, the air warmer now than it had been when they’d first arrived. Akari greets him by trotting over to the boulders, yipping at him as she brings his backpack along, strap firmly caught in her jaws, which means she’d made herself completely solid just for this sole action.

He very nearly pets her, but stops himself in time. Instead, he merely glances at her as she places the bag at his feet, before taking a couple of steps back, pawing at the ground. “Thanks, Akari,” he murmurs, and then looks back up at Atsumu. “She seems fine to me.”

A pout graces Atsumu’s features as he rolls his eyes, still wrapped up in the blanket and sitting cross-legged, looking very much like an overgrown child. “Of course we’re both fine _now,_ but that was a hell of a jump, Omi-kun,” he presses, shaking his head in disbelief. “Did ya really learn to fly like that?”

“More or less,” Kiyoomi replies with a shrug, taking out his other pair of leather gloves he’d brought along and putting them on, before rummaging the bag for a mask, a pack of wet wipes and his socks. “Did I keep you waiting for long?”

“Nah, Akari-chan and I had fun watching ya,” Atsumu’s voice is softer than his initial outburst when Kiyoomi had just landed; when Kiyoomi looks up, Atsumu’s gaze is fixed on the wings still spread out behind Kiyoomi’s back. “You… You were really enjoying yerself up there, weren’t ya?”

At Atsumu’s words, heat makes itself known in the tips of Kiyoomi’s ears, and he busies himself with looking for that mask, because—

When he’d let his avian instincts take over, he hadn’t expected them to start calling on ancient movements he’d grown up watching in the flutter of his mother’s feathers and the swoop of her wings as she danced for his father, with every single chance she could get. He hadn’t expected the inclination to copy those same twists and sways when he’d thought of Atsumu watching him taking off for the skies.

He hadn’t expected to swoop low enough for Atsumu to unknowingly watch the beginning of a courting ritual dance that Kiyoomi had never found the desire to perform for anyone, until Atsumu came along. Stamping down those instincts wasn’t easy, but he’d pushed through the first few loops before gathering his wits once more and flying a little further away, where there was no one to see the red in his cheeks and hear the pounding against his chest.

Mask safely on, he lets his wings retract somewhat, careful to not let them brush against the stones and dirt, using them to balance himself as he stands on one foot to clean the other. “It’s difficult not to,” he says honestly, but perhaps not just for the reasons Atsumu might think. Still, he adds, “Thanks. For convincing me to do this. And for coming along.”

When he lifts his head up again, socks and boots back on, Atsumu’s got Akari in his lap, golden sun rays highlighting the red tip of his nose and the sheen of his hair, eyes watching something in the distance.

“Feels like I should be thanking ya for lettin’ me come along, Omi-Omi,” he says after a moment, his tone too warm, a homemade knitted scarf that fits around the edges of Kiyoomi’s bluster and cracked edges. “I coulda just watched ya for forever.”

_Oh._

Kiyoomi waits, wings trembling and heart too ready to leap out of his hands, and he’s rewarded one, two beats later when Atsumu turns to look at him, a flash of that mad foxgrin enough to make him sway slightly on his feet. 

“You looked like ya belong to the skies, Omi.”

_Wrong._ Atsumu is wrong.

The skies don’t hold one Miya Atsumu and his magik dust constellations and star-like freckles, pale sunshine hair reminiscent of the time of day when Kiyoomi feels most relaxed, and the skies may forever be there for Kiyoomi but Atsumu is in front of him right now, and somehow that resonates so much more.

“Flight is temporary by nature, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi says, carefully walking over to the warlock and his familiar. “Everyone has to land, sooner or later.” He spreads his wings again, grimacing when he feels more than several of his feathers sticking out of place. “Especially when nothing messes up your wings as bad as flying untethered like this.”

“Yeah, some of them are lookin’ kinda rough,” Atsumu notes, wrinkling his nose as he tries to peer around Kiyoomi’s wings. “Ya wanna leave now, then?”

“Mmm.” Kiyoomi’s thoughts about Atsumu don’t disappear, but they’re relegated to the back of his mind as both of them start cleaning up after themselves under Akari’s watchful gaze. Going back down the mountain is easier than the hike up, but even then Kiyoomi’s already beginning to feel the itch to preen his feathers, not looking forward to having to deal with the struggles of grooming the harder-to-reach parts.

When they make their way back into town, the car ride is just as quiet as it had been, but this time, Atsumu keeps glancing at the road and at Kiyoomi periodically, staring at his familiar with a wrinkle in his brow from time to time.

After ten minutes of this, Kiyoomi sighs. “Spit it out, Atsumu, or I’m making you walk back home.”

“How could ya make Akari-chan and me walk all o’ that distance, Omi-kun?!”

“Akari can stay, I suppose.”

Atsumu squawks indignantly, and Akari lets out a sharp bark from his lap—Kiyoomi’s recognised it as her version of laughter, and it makes him grin under his mask. But he is curious as to why Atsumu keeps fidgeting, so he exhales again and asks, “What crawled up your ass since we left the mountain?”

“Wow, yer hilarious, Omi,” is Atsumu’s snide reply, but he doesn’t look at Kiyoomi, fingers rubbing against each other as he seemingly tries to find his words. “‘S just… Who usually helps ya, with yer preenin’?”

Kiyoomi’s suddenly not at all sure if he’s prepared to see the end of this conversation, despite the fact that he did bring it first.

“I do it alone,” he replies tersely. “Unless my family comes down to visit, but that only happens a couple of times a year, so I just make do.”

Atsumu hums—there’s that tension again, from when they’d spoken on the mountain peak just after Kiyoomi had finished his flight; he’d incorrectly assumed that it was due to the nature of their surroundings then, but perhaps it’s really just the way Atsumu’s words are a consistent hammering against the numerous walls Kiyoomi had built around him for the better part of his life.

There’s a deep inhale beside Kiyoomi, and then Atsumu’s words drop out of his mouth cautiously, like he’s ready to take them all back.

“Do ya… Would ya let me help, Omi-Omi?”


	2. can it be any better than this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Atsumu, I—” Kiyoomi interrupts, swallowing when he can’t find the rest of his words.
> 
> The warlock tilts his head. “You?” he prompts after a few moments.
> 
> “Do you know what it means for an avian halfling to dance for someone?” Kiyoomi says at last.
> 
> Atsumu blinks, a wrinkle between his brows. “Vaguely,” he says slowly. “It’s… It’s somethin’ real important to them, isn’t it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have out-fluffed myself this time
> 
> featuring the anticipated preening, inarizaki shenanigans, an old tv reference and sakusa parents

This is the first time anyone else aside from Kiyoomi’s family had stepped foot into the home he’d inherited from his late grandfather over four years ago.

He’d kept the original structure of the traditional-style house intact, even after the rest of his family had moved out in the last decade or so, leaving him with his grandfather, until the elderly man left him too. Comprising four bedrooms, a living room, kitchen area and three bathrooms, the entire space is more than large enough for one person, but Kiyoomi prefers it that way.

Behind him, Atsumu whistles lowly as he enters the  _ genkan, _ Akari trotting ahead of them to pace the closed doorway. “Sorry for the intrusion,” he says quietly, and when Kiyoomi turns around, he’s got his shoes in one hand, glancing around the area.

“You can put them in here,” Kiyoomi points out as he heads to the lone cabinet against the wall, methodically taking off his own boots and reaching in for his usual slippers, before taking out an unused pair.

Atsumu shuffles over to the cabinet, and Kiyoomi makes space for him, letting Atsumu gather his senses as the wards around Kiyoomi’s home reaches out towards the warlock, acclimatising themselves with Atsumu’s own magik. There’s a low hum in his ears as the wards lower with barely any hesitation, and from the corner of his eye, Kiyoomi glimpses a flash of a pleased smile.

“Here,” he hands the other pair of slippers to Atsumu, and doesn’t wait for the other man to wear them before he strides towards the doorway, where Akari’s pawing at the steps. Kiyoomi stares down at her, narrowing his eyes. “If I open this door, you’re not going to just run inside my house, are you?”

She does the head tilt move, the one that unfailingly makes him grit his teeth in a mix of amused frustration and endeared resignation, but Kiyoomi stays steadfast, because this is his sanctuary, and he’s having a very difficult time trying to reconcile with the fact that he’d just brought Miya Atsumu and his familiar to this place.

From behind him, Atsumu comes closer, and drops down to a squat in front of Akari, leaning forward to press his forehead against hers.

It’s a startlingly intimate scene, and Kiyoomi suddenly feels like he’s intruding, never mind the fact that this is currently happening on his own front step.

“I know yer excited, Akari-chan, but we need ta slow down sometimes, remember?” Atsumu whispers, smiling widely as Akari bares her fangs. “Mmm, I know, ya don’t gotta tell me. Plus, we don’t want Omi-kun to kick us out, do we?”

Kiyoomi huffs. “That still remains to be seen,” he says dryly.

But Atsumu must hear the light amusement in Kiyoomi’s voice, because his smile grows, and in a move that nearly cripples Kiyoomi’s ability to function in any normal capacity, shifts his head to nuzzle against Akari’s snout.

And then he turns to look up at Kiyoomi, cheek pressed against Akari’s fur, and Kiyoomi wonders for a moment if he really has ceased to function, with how his breath is caught in his throat, unable to move or look away.

“She’s not gonna run around now,” Atsumu tells him, honey-brown eyes watching him carefully. “Thanks again for bringing us ta your home, Omi.”

“I—no problem,” Kiyoomi fumbles, and finally unlocks the door before he can succumb to an Atsumu-induced heart attack.

True to Atsumu’s words, Akari sticks by their legs as Kiyoomi gives a stilted, impromptu tour of his home, answering Atsumu’s inquisitive questions about the paintings on the walls (“My father’s”) and the numerous pictures detailing the majority of Kiyoomi’s life (“Aww, ya look so cute in this one, Omi-Omi!”), before leading them to the living room, pushing the sliding doors open, still barely able to grasp the thought that he had said yes to Atsumu’s suggestion.

The living room faces the west, and with it being barely nine in the morning, Kiyoomi feels justified in pulling open one of the doors leading to the yard, letting in sunlight and the chill of autumn in. “You can sit down first,” he calls over his shoulder, steeling himself. “I’ll… I’ll get the kit and some tea going.”

“We’ll be here,” Atsumu replies airily, but he sits down on one of the couches gingerly, like he’s afraid to create a crease in the fabric. Akari, in contrast, leaps onto the armchair and curls up on it like she’s always belonged there.

Kiyoomi leaves before he can change his mind, heading to the kitchen first to get the water boiling, and then turns down the hallway, passing the empty bedrooms where his sister and parents used to occupy before reaching his own. The kit, a small case consisting of a pack of nitrile gloves, and a comb given to him on his 20th birthday, the last one he’d celebrated with his grandfather, is kept beside the mirror in his room in a wooden case, and when Kiyoomi stands before it, he feels a mingled sense of relief and trepidation at the thought that he wouldn’t have to contort his body in order to ensure his wings are properly groomed again.

He picks up the kit, takes another much-needed deep breath, and makes his way back to the kitchen to prepare the tea.

The familiar motions, along with the scent of jasmine, serve to soothe some of his nerves. When he walks to the living room with a pot and two cups set on a tray, the case underneath it, the voice that had sighed at him for agreeing to Atsumu’s proposition grows suspiciously silent when he sees Atsumu standing in front of the yard, his broad back facing Kiyoomi, Akari sitting beside his legs.

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi calls out, and stifles a laugh when he sees the other man visibly jolt at his voice.

“A little warnin’ woulda been nice, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu replies, but his eyes are bright as he walks over, leaving Akari to explore the yard. He sits in a  _ seiza _ position on one of the cushions surrounding the low table, watching Kiyoomi set down the case first, and then pouring the tea for both of them.

Kiyoomi acknowledges Atsumu’s murmur of thanks with a nod, and they sip their tea in silence for a few moments, with only the quiet puffs of air to cool down their drinks to accompany the background noise of the birds outside. Subconsciously, Kiyoomi wonders if Akari would be one to terrorise the local wildlife, before quelling the thought with a firm belief that it was not even a question of  _ if, _ and silently hopes she doesn’t find the nest in the maple tree overlooking the south of his home.

The silence is broken by Atsumu’s tentative “Omi-kun?”

He hums, continuing to drink his tea.

“I know I offered,” Atsumu starts, fidgeting in his seat, his cup safely placed back on the saucer as he looks at Kiyoomi. “But ya don’t gotta say yes if ya don’t want me ta do it. Help ya preen, I mean. It’s—I still wanna do it, but not if it’s gonna make ya uncomfortable,” he finishes with a rough exhale.

Kiyoomi doesn’t even have it in him to pretend to seek that voice anymore.

“Atsumu,” he says, savouring the sound of that name in his mouth, mingling with the clean taste of jasmine tea. “I’m not sure if you haven’t noticed, but I am not inclined to do things just because I want to appear like a ‘nice’ person.”  _ Is that enough? Will that finally get through his skull? _

The look on Atsumu’s face nearly sends him into a fit, but he takes one last sip, and places the cup on the saucer as he waits.

Thankfully, it seemed Atsumu only needed a few seconds, because the grin he graces Kiyoomi is nearly as blinding as the sun that had accompanied him on his flight hours ago.

The next ten minutes sees Kiyoomi showing Atsumu where the guest bathroom is for him to clean up, and Kiyoomi takes a shower as well to wash off the grime from the hike and flying, mentally stepping into a well-worn routine honed over the years. He doesn’t bother with a shirt when he gets out of his own bathroom, and simply puts on a pair of lounge pants as he dries his hair, brushing a couple of feathers down when he sees how out of place they’ve become.

When Kiyoomi walks back to the living room, he’s not prepared for the way Atsumu’s jaw drops at his lack of a shirt, or how red suffuses into the other man’s cheeks as Atsumu’s eyes rove all over his figure for long seconds before they trail back up again to meet Kiyoomi’s gaze.

Kiyoomi’s also not prepared for the gentle heat in Atsumu’s eyes, or how his smile is less mad foxgrin and more a complicated mix of gratitude and anticipation.

It’s not too much—but it’s almost more than Kiyoomi can handle, and he shatters the tension by clearing his throat, walking into the room and taking the seat facing Atsumu, reaching for the case. He opens it up, and explains how to comb his feathers in halting words, remembering gentle, familiar hands in his wings on lazy afternoons, coaxing his muscles to relax under their touch. “I’m not sure how much you know of my anatomy, but there are glands underneath my wings that secrete some sort of oil—it helps to keep the feathers in good condition, but don’t try to coax the oil out, just stick to the edges of the glands,” Kiyoomi warns, and Atsumu nods seriously, like he’s about to take an exam in a magik course.

“Start from the primary feathers, the ones you see first,” Kiyoomi instructs, stroking down the upper length of his wing, “And then you can work your way down.”

“Got it, Omi-kun,” Atsumu answers. “No need ta worry, I’ll take care o’ ya.”

The calm, confident declaration stays in the chasm of Kiyoomi’s chest, and with one final nod, he turns around, and unveils his back to Atsumu for the first time. It’s then that Akari appears once more in front of him, and Kiyoomi doesn’t say anything, doesn’t do anything as she makes his way towards him.

When she eventually climbs into his lap, curling into the cradle of his legs like she belongs there, both he and Atsumu release a deep breath, and Kiyoomi lifts a hand to brush back her ears.

One, two, five seconds—he hears Atsumu snapping on the gloves, but then more time passes—

His shoulders stiffen at the foreign touch, and Atsumu hushes him, mumbles something nonsensical like “Relax for me, would ya?” but it does the trick, and soon Kiyoomi’s body acclimates to the feeling of Atsumu’s almost-too-careful fingers preening his feathers, combing them down like they’ve got all the time in the world. The quiet stretches with Atsumu learning to familiarise himself with Kiyoomi’s wings, lifting them gradually to get at the secondary feathers once he’d worked through the uppermost layer.

When Kiyoomi gets preened by his siblings or his parents, there’s a sense of refuge with each passing of their hands over his wings; they know his quirks, how he’d wrinkle his nose when they would accidentally press a little too hard against the thinner bones, but understanding full well how to coax him back into a relaxed state.

With Atsumu, he’s left untethered but for the grip Atsumu has on his wings, grounding him in the fact that it’s  _ Atsumu _ touching his wings, his skin, the very parts of him that Kiyoomi either hides away or keeps tucked around himself while Akari stays in his lap, Kiyoomi’s fingers methodically rubbing against her fur, both of them covering Kiyoomi completely.

For the first time in a long,  _ long _ while, Kiyoomi doesn’t want the warmth of someone else’s hands to leave his body.

* * *

“You did a pretty decent job for your first time.”

“Oi, what’s that supposed to mean?!”

Kiyoomi’s lying; Atsumu did wonderfully, but if Kiyoomi actually said that, he’s afraid the warlock would either boast about it for days on end, or combust right on the spot in the middle of his kitchen.

Unlike Atsumu’s apartment, Kiyoomi’s kitchen is largely devoid of any spells or wards—there are simple charms for spills and protection against accidental burns, but for the most part, there are numerous signs of age and wear everywhere, despite how well-maintained everything is. It’s Kiyoomi’s childhood and subsequent years in the form of scuff marks on the counter, pots in the cabinet from when his grandmother had been alive, before Kiyoomi was even born, and how he still keeps Motoya’s favourite snacks in the pantry for whenever his cousin drops by unannounced.

Atsumu doesn’t look like he belongs in Kiyoomi’s kitchen, but he sits like he does, legs lazily crossed as they take bites out of the fried rice Atsumu had spruced up for lunch from the few ingredients Kiyoomi has lying around.

“It means what I just said,” Kiyoomi answers, and gets a pout in response, as well as Atsumu’s chopsticks floating in midair crossed in a menacing sign. “If you get rice on the table I’m confiscating everything you’ve bought from the apothecary.”

The chopsticks freeze for a moment, before they’re clutched in Atsumu’s fist, returned to the bowl with no danger of spillage. Atsumu huffs, chewing his food before he mumbles, “I ain’t offerin’ to help ya again, then.” 

_ (How does he find the exact words to crack open Kiyoomi’s chest so easily?) _

Kiyoomi looks away as he murmurs, “Okay. I would have said yes, though.”

The choked sound coming from Atsumu is worth the heat enveloping the tips of his ears.

After a moment charged with budding hope and slight terror at the thought that he might have misstepped, he hears:

“Ask me again next time.”

Thankfully, Akari breaks the tension by appearing right on top of Kiyoomi’s dining table, ears perked up and a swishing tail narrowly missing Atsumu’s glass, causing the warlock to sigh wearily as he moves it away. Kiyoomi takes the chance to quiet his own thoughts while Atsumu playfully berates his familiar, who yips back in an affronted manner, pawing at the table.

Lunch passes in a calmer manner, and despite the fact that this is Atsumu’s first time in Kiyoomi’s home, he moves around the kitchen with ease, picking up the dishes and bringing them over to the sink, letting Kiyoomi take over to wash them like they’d learned to do over the past few months. Akari settles in between Kiyoomi’s feet, curled up and leaning against his leg while he entertains more of Atsumu’s questions about his childhood, his life before he’d taken over the apothecary.

It’s during Kiyoomi’s last pass of the water over the final bowl that Atsumu asks tentatively, “Omi-kun, ya doing anything this Saturday?”

Kiyoomi doesn’t need to think; he’s got his schedule memorised for the past four years, but he does wait a couple of moments before throwing Atsumu a glance and answering, “Just looking after the apothecary, as usual. You’ve visited me on Saturdays before, you should know this.”

“Not everyone’s got a good memory like ya, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu retorts, fidgeting in his seat. “I just wanted ta check, anyways, ‘cause, uh.” He pauses, and Kiyoomi turns off the pipe, reaching for the towel to wipe the dish in his hands. “I never said, but—it’s my birthday that day, well, mine and Samu’s, ‘course, so we’re having a really small get-together at the apartment and I wondered if—well, yer welcome to drop by, if ya wanna.”

Endearing stutters aside, Kiyoomi’s starting to learn that every suggestion Atsumu has been posing to him of late constantly puts the ball in his court when it comes to this friendship-slowly-turning-something-else that they have, and gratitude sneaks into the crevices of his thoughts when he thinks of Atsumu’s surprising consideration and accommodating nature.

But another part of him is also a little frustrated, because how does he show Atsumu that Kiyoomi genuinely enjoys every single moment Atsumu lets him in, every single step Atsumu takes to come a little closer to Kiyoomi?

He must have been silent for a little too long, because Atsumu begins to ramble, “Yer free ta say no too, Omi-Omi, it’s not a big deal or anythin’—”

“I’d like to go,” Kiyoomi cuts him off.

“Huh?”

Kiyoomi makes sure Atsumu meets his gaze before he continues, words measured and deliberate. “It’s your birthday. Of course it’s a big deal. If you’re inviting me, I’ll go, Atsumu.”

Akari shifts until she’s resting on his feet, while Atsumu stares at Kiyoomi blankly. And then Atsumu  _ blushes, _ scarlet and lovely and it takes everything in Kiyoomi to not go over to him, just to know how warm Atsumu’s skin must feel under Kiyoomi’s hands. It doesn’t help that Atsumu blinks before ripping his gaze away and cupping his cheek to hide half of his face, like he’s well aware of his own body’s reactions to Kiyoomi’s seemingly innocuous words.

“I mean, if ya put it like that, Omi,” Atsumu bites out in a muffled voice, his fingers failing to hide the wide grin spreading across his face, “A simple yes woulda been fine too.”

* * *

The noise reaches Kiyoomi’s ears even before he steps out of the elevator.

Atsumu had informed him that his friends from back home were coming down to visit, and that Motoya was invited as well. Unfortunately, Motoya had been called out for a job earlier that week, and wouldn’t be back until late on Sunday, which meant that Kiyoomi would only know Atsumu, and to a lesser extent, Osamu, at this gathering.

It says something about him that he doesn’t find any regret in coming, anyway.

He follows the laughter down the hallway, a bag in his right hand with the twins’ gifts inside it, and when he presses the doorbell, he can hear Atsumu yelling, “Coming! Oi, Sunarin, don’t—”

Kiyoomi nearly steps back at the blast of noise that greets him when the door opens, but instead of the blonde warlock he’d been expected, a stranger stands in the doorway, green eyes narrowed and dark tufts of fox ears perked up as he stares at Kiyoomi, a thick, fluffy tail swishing behind him.

“Did Atsumu bribe you to come here?”

Oh, that’s hilarious, Kiyoomi needs to remember that for next time.

He doesn’t get to reply before the fox hybrid’s shoved aside and Atsumu appears, looking slightly worse for wear, the back of his hair sticking straight up and chest heaving as he pants, magik dust twinkling at him in contrast with the flush in his cheeks.

Kiyoomi  _ immediately _ shoves aside any errant, unwelcome thoughts about what other situations would have Atsumu looking like that.

“Sunarin, ya fuckin’ ass,” Atsumu grumbles, as the other man literally slaps Atsumu’s arm with his tail, a smirk playing on his lips while Atsumu bats the furry appendage away. “Who’s bribin’ who anyways, yer the one tha’ said ya wouldn’t come if Osamu wasn’t cookin’!”

“That’s not bribing, I was legitimately asking,” Sunarin—Kiyoomi assumes it’s a nickname, only because Atsumu’s prone to giving those out—hisses back, but his eyes flicker towards Kiyoomi one more time before he’s smirking again. “I’m telling Kita-san that you  _ didn’t mention _ you were bringing someone else,” he adds, and leaves as Atsumu yelps.

“I—shut up, I did tell him!” Atsumu yells indignantly, before seemingly coming to the realisation that he’d been having an argument with the fox hybrid with Kiyoomi as his solo audience. “Fuck, that’s not,” he exhales, running a hand through his hair, and when his eyes meet Kiyoomi’s, they’re the same honey-gold-brown that Kiyoomi thinks about too often these days, crinkled in an embarrassed smile. “Sorry ‘bout that, Omi-kun,” he continues, stepping aside. “Come in—shoulda expected ya to be early.”

Kiyoomi had thought he was, but a glance behind Atsumu easily reveals that there are already plenty of people in the apartment, and he points this out.

Atsumu grins. “Yeah, a couple o’ them came over earlier to help with the cookin’, ‘cept Sunarin, though. He’s just here to mooch off o’ ‘Samu,” he adds, directing Kiyoomi towards the pair of house slippers that Kiyoomi has started using ever since that first dinner in this very apartment, the ones that he silently claims as his own. “More o’ them will be comin’, but if ya like, I could introduce ya to the others first?”

Kiyoomi nods, but brings the bag in his hand towards Atsumu. “Your birthday gift is in here, with Osamu’s.”

“Huh? Ya didn’t have ta get us anythin’, Omi-Omi! Especially Samu.” But the pleased smile on Atsumu’s face as he takes the bag tells a different story, and Kiyoomi huffs.

“I can always take them back,” he says dryly.

The way Atsumu instantly switches the bag to his other hand should not be that endearing, but Kiyoomi holds in his sigh and follows Atsumu into the apartment, forcing himself to hold back from fiddling with the straps of his mask when the fox hybrid from earlier catches sight of them.

He’s talking to a tall, dark-haired man with a somewhat severe looking appearance and the same shade of ears and tail as Sunarin, and Kiyoomi lets Atsumu take the edge of his sleeve to steer him around the living room, where several glowing paper lanterns are floating nearby the walls, probably courtesy of Atsumu himself. “Omi-kun, this is Ren-san and Sunarin,” Atsumu says with a flourish when they’re near enough.

The tall man raises his eyebrow. “Omi-kun?”

“Sakusa, actually,” Kiyoomi says, and shoots back with, “Ren-san?”

“Oomimi Ren,” he answers with a grin that somehow brings down the level of seriousness in his features by more than half, ears twitching. “And this is Suna Rintarou,” he gestures at the man beside him, and Kiyoomi mentally switches the nickname to his proper one. “We’re old friends of Atsumu.”

“I’ll tell you about the time he got stuck up in a tengu’s backyard if you tell me what Atsumu’s been up to these days,” Suna offers, and Kiyoomi is very tempted to take him up on the offer, but he takes one glance at Atsumu, who’s desperately trying to hide his pout by glaring into the distance, and figures it’s probably better to coax the story out of Atsumu himself.

So Kiyoomi shrugs and replies with a vague, “He just comes into my apothecary a lot,” which turns into a ten-minute conversation about the supplies that he gets on a regular basis. Atsumu disappears for a brief period, presumably to put away the gifts, before coming back with Akari on his heels.

The familiar spots him from across the room, and in the next second, materialises right on top of his feet, causing both Oomimi and Suna to jerk slightly at her sudden appearance.

Suna’s tail flicks as he looks down at Akari with an amused expression. “She seems to like you a lot.”

Somehow,  _ that _ causes him to look away, lest either Oomimi or Suna see the redness in his ears, but then he catches Atsumu’s eye, who watches him with a puzzling expression before it’s wiped away by a smile as he turns away, the doorbell ringing then.

“Does she not do these things around you?” Kiyoomi asks when he can finally look at Suna in the eye without flushing, but it’s Oomimi who answers.

“Sometimes, but it took about a year for her to start warming up to us when she first appeared,” he says, just as Akari gets up from Kiyoomi’s shoes to rub her body against Oomimi’s legs. “Ryuko wasn’t all that picky with our company but Akari was notorious for only liking Kita and Osamu in the beginning,” he adds, bending down to scratch behind Akari’s ear, earning a tail whumping against his shin. “Speaking of which, there’s Kita and Aran.”

When Kiyoomi turns around, Atsumu’s leading two men into the living room, animated hands batting away a lantern that had floated away from the others as he speaks, before his arms are filled with all of Akari, who surges up towards one of the men, silver-haired but for the black tips with a placid expression despite the familiar sniffing at his face.

And then Atsumu’s voice rings out as he takes a few steps back, “Argh, Akari-chan! Ah, sorry ‘bout tha’, Kita-san.”

Kita shakes his head, lifting a hand to pet Akari’s head. “It’s fine, Atsumu. Thanks fer invitin’ us,” he replies with the same lilting accent as the twins’. He glances at the man next to him, tall, broad and dark-skinned, holding a basket with a genial smile on his features. “We got ya some fresh apples from back home, since we started growin’ them in a patch on tha’ farm.”

“Aww, thanks Kita-san, Aran-san! Lemme just put ‘em in the kitchen, food should be ready soon,” Atsumu says, but Aran waves him off, says, “‘S fine, I wanted ta say hi to Osamu and check up on him and Ginjima anyway,” before leaving the other two. It’s then that Kita realises he’s being watched, and he meets Kiyoomi’s gaze.

Atsumu sees it too, and soon enough Kiyoomi’s introduced to the man that had essentially been their pack leader since they were young pups and barely able to wield spells, this human with large brown eyes and a quiet voice that seemingly demands attention, despite the calm tone he wears. In turn, Kiyoomi tells him about his work, and Kita’s smile feels like an approval that Kiyoomi had never thought to seek, but is welcomed nonetheless.

Their conversation gets broken up by Osamu’s voice announcing, “Food’s ready! Come get yer share, plenty fer everyone,” and Atsumu sidles up next to him as everyone else makes their way to the kitchen, more guests having appeared in the time since Kita and Aran had arrived.

“Doing okay, Omi-Omi?”

Kiyoomi frowns at him. “I’m fine,” he replies, and thinks of Atsumu’s odd expression from earlier. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

Atsumu blinks at him, confusion evident in the wrinkle between his brows. “Yeah? I mean, everyone I care about ‘s here celebratin’ mine and Samu’s day, why wouldn’t I be?”

The weight of his words seemed to hit them both at the same time, because Kiyoomi’s suddenly finding it difficult to breathe, and Atsumu flushes as he makes a sound that can only be described as a  _ meep, _ whipping his head to turn away in a flash.

It’s Osamu that finds them moments later, followed by Ryuko’s appearance on Atsumu’s shoulder as he pecks at an ear, causing Atsumu to grumble at the familiar’s actions. “Oi, stop that,” he complains, but does nothing to dislodge Ryuko off of him.

“The hell are ya two still doin’ out here? Food’s gonna get cold,” Osamu remarks, shifting his glare towards Atsumu. “Why are ya keeping Sakusa-kun away from dinner, idiot?”

“Hah?! I ain’t keepin’ him, we were just talkin’!” Atsumu retorts, rolling his eyes. “Anyway, we were about to go in, so move yer ass out of the way,” he adds, and nearly gets a lantern thrown at his face courtesy of Osamu’s deadly accurate aim. “Samu, ya bastard!”

Osamu doesn’t even flinch at Atsumu’s screeching, looking at Kiyoomi instead. “I know Tsumu’s been feedin’ ya well enough, but yer really missin’ out some good stuff if ya stay out here, Sakusa-kun,” he chuckles, unaware of what he’d probably walked into just seconds ago.

“I—we’ll be right there,” Kiyoomi replies, while Atsumu splutters unintelligibly beside him. “Thanks, Osamu-san.”

“Alright, then. Tsumu, they’re waiting on yer ass for us to cut the cake,” Osamu gestures at the kitchen, where the rest of the guests presumably are, before turning back around to join them, leaving Kiyoomi and Atsumu alone.

As well as Ryuko, who hoots once before disappearing into thin air.

The ensuing silence nearly makes Kiyoomi wonder if he should just  _ leave, _ but he’s distracted from his thoughts when Atsumu touches the edge of his sleeve to get his attention.

“We should go in. ‘Samu wasn’t kiddin’, he  _ did _ go all out for today,” Atsumu snorts, and then Kiyoomi instinctively knows that whatever Atsumu says next will irrevocably cause him to break a little more under that honey-gold gaze.

He confirms that instinct in the next instant, when a razor-sharp foxgrin stretches wide across Atsumu’s face, and the remnants of magik dust pool on the highs of his cheeks.

“And fer the record, I wasn’t jokin’, either,” he murmurs, and rubs the edges of Kiyoomi’s sleeve between the tips of his fingers, less than an inch separating them from Kiyoomi’s wrist.

“‘M glad ya could make it tonight.”

* * *

Something had shifted since the twins’ birthday.

Atsumu comes into the apothecary on a regular basis, but he spends less time rummaging around Kiyoomi’s expensive and exotic items; instead, he’s usually leaning against the front counter as Kiyoomi does his best to not reach out and touch the wayward tuft of hair that constantly hangs in front of Atsumu’s forehead, listening to Atsumu’s stories from his travels and talking about things too mundane for Kiyoomi to think of them with fondness, late at night when he’s drinking his tea, wondering how much deeper he can fall for the warlock.

The answer, which comes as no surprise to him at this point, is deeper than he can possibly fathom.

They’re having lunch at Kiyoomi’s house on his off day this time, a month after that flight, with Atsumu needling Kiyoomi to bake something for dessert, because, “I know we’ve been tryin’ to get ya to cook better, but tha’ doesn’t mean ya gotta stop making the sweet stuff, too!”

So Kiyoomi had made matcha-flavoured cupcakes, and Atsumu had gifted him with one of those grins that showcase the dimples in his cheeks, before they disappeared along with half of a cupcake in Atsumu's mouth.

As Atsumu continues to devour the treats, Kiyoomi can't help but notice how the winter sunshine streaming through the windows bathes Atsumu's hair in a pale halo, and he finds himself asking, "Why do you spell your hair blonde?" 

Atsumu pauses with one arm outstretched towards the cupcakes, before pulling back and scratching at his cheek. There's something akin to hesitation in his expression, but Kiyoomi doesn't get to retract his question, because Atsumu starts talking.

"Well, I don't know about ya, since I didn't see no TV in the living room, but growin' up, me and 'Samu used to hang at Sunarin's place all the time," he says, nostalgia bleeding into his words. "His parents were like, obsessed with old western shows so sometimes we'd just watch whatever channel they'd left the TV on, right?" 

Kiyoomi nods, having absolutely no idea where Atsumu is going with this.

Atsumu's next words come out almost too fast for Kiyoomi to catch. "Yeah, so, uh. There was this one cartoon show where the main character was a witch ‘n she had blonde hair ‘n I thought she was real cool. I wanted ta be like her when I grew up, so when I started learnin' charms and shit, changin' up my appearance was among the first things I tried ta master." He exhales, shrugging as he lifts a hand, probably to touch his hair before remembering there are cupcake crumbs on it, and places it back down. “‘Samu got annoyed at me ‘cause he also wanted to have the same hair colour but I got tha spell down first, so I helped him do his hair grey for a while, ‘til he left our course.”

It takes a couple of seconds for Kiyoomi to register his words, but when they sink in, there’s no helping the ugly snort that escapes him. Atsumu’s sulky pout doesn’t help things, as well as his cry of, “Omi-Omi! Why are ya laughing?!”

“You decided to go blonde because of an animated witch you liked as a kid?” Kiyoomi gets out in between his slight wheezes, fondness slipping into his very breath because  _ of course _ Miya Atsumu would be swayed by something so mundane, and latch on to it for literal  _ years _ just because it was his definition of amazing.

“A really cool animated witch, okay! Don’t slander my childhood like that,” Atsumu snaps back, but the corners of his lips are twitching.

Somehow, Kiyoomi finds it in him to calm down at last—his vision is a little blurry, and he absently notes how long it’s been since he’d laughed so hard until he cried. “Is that really why you keep your hair that way?”

Atsumu nods, unrepentant but for the pink spreading across his face. “Learned ta mix some hair conditionin’ spells in too, so I never bothered ta change it up. And yeah it’s kinda dumb, but the show really made me think about how great it would be, to grow up and be a warlock, so I don’t know, it’s… It’s something that reminds me of that moment I decided to join the course whenever I look at myself everyday.”

Kiyoomi nods, but his thoughts have begun to unravel in a mess as he wonders what else does Atsumu see in himself—does he see the glow of magik that trails in Kiyoomi’s apothecary long after the warlock has left for home? The imprints of Kiyoomi’s increasingly non-platonic emotions scattered in the ways Kiyoomi lets his eyes linger on Atsumu’s cheekbones, the swoop of his hair and the breadth of his shoulders?

Then Atsumu smiles beatifically at him, and says, "Also, I think blonde really suits me better than just plain ol' black hair."

Kiyoomi hates that he actually agrees, and it’s in that moment that he truly,  _ truly _ accepts defeat.

* * *

“Kiyo-chan!”

It takes Kiyoomi a couple more days to take the plunge and call them. “Hi,  _ kaa-san. _ Are you and  _ tou-san _ well?”

His mother’s smile is palpable even through the phone, and Kiyoomi finds himself instinctively relaxing his shoulders. “We’re doing fine—your father just left to go to the store, but I’ll tell him you called. How are you?”

“I…” Kiyoomi pauses, thinking about her question a little more deeply than what it might have warranted. “I’m good,” he settles, as he envisions an image of Atsumu from the week before, drinking tea in the corner of his couch across Kiyoomi, Akari cuddled up beside him. “It’s just… I needed to ask you about something.”

He hears her shifting around, and waits for her response. “Mmm? What about?”

_ One deep breath. _ “Courting,” he bites out.

A gasp reaches his ears, and Kiyoomi braces himself, but instead of the onslaught of curious questions, she only says in clear, quiet awe, “Oh, Kiyo-chan. That’s… Who are they?”

Thinking of Atsumu only makes him feel more helpless, more vulnerable under the weight of everything he feels for the other man, but he allows it to wash over him as he sinks into his armchair, all too aware of the smile tugging at his lips. “A warlock. He—I went flying, with him.”  _ For him, _ Kiyoomi doesn’t say, but he’s sure she hears it anyway. “And I wanted to dance, the way you do for  _ tou-san, _ and it’s been in my mind for a while. How… What made you decide to dance for him?”

The ensuing quiet almost rattles him, until his mother starts speaking in a soft, fond note Kiyoomi knows she reserves for his father alone. “He asked if he could sketch me in my shift form, a couple of months after we got to know each other. And I was—I was joking and said, ‘Wouldn’t you rather spend time with me in my human form, so we could at least understand each other?’ but he answered, all serious, ‘I don’t need to talk to you to learn how to understand you.’ And that very afternoon I danced.”

“He didn’t know, of course, and it wasn’t an official courting dance, not until I sat him down and talked to him about it, asked him if he’d like me to do that. And, well. Here you are,” she finishes with a giggle.

_ “Kaa-san,” _ Kiyoomi admonishes, frowning at her implications. Gross. He ruminates over her words, though, before asking, “So, you explained to him about it first?”

She hums. “Well, your father  _ is _ human, so I wasn’t sure how much he knew about our courting rituals. You don’t necessarily have to do it before, but I wanted my intentions to be clear, because I didn’t know what I would have done if I danced and he’d rejected me.”

A man so besotted with her that he’d left behind his own family to make a home with her? Kiyoomi’s snort doesn’t get past his mother, and she harrumphs at him. “You get your wariness from me, you know? But I hope I answered your question from earlier, Kiyo-chan. It’s not everyday you find someone to dance for, and I… My only hope is that he’s deserving of it,” she says gently, and Kiyoomi knows that even if Atsumu says no, it doesn’t take any of his worth away.

“I’d say he is,” and his mother coos into the phone, causing him to blush.  _ “Kaasan, _ please.”

“You’re my youngest, Kiyo-chan, I can’t believe you’re all grown up now!” she cries, never mind the fact that he is almost twenty-five and has been living on his own since he was twenty. “So, when do we get to meet this warlock of yours?”

Kiyoomi sits up straight at that.

_ “Huh?” _

* * *

“Your old bedroom is clean, of course, but if there’s anything missing I can run to the  _ konbini _ nearby—”

“Kiyo-chan.” Kiyoomi stiffens at his mother’s firm note, but he forces himself to look at her, head bowed as he meets her twinkling gaze. “Your father’s not too old to carry our bags, and we’re only visiting for the weekend, anyway.” He glances at the man next to her, whose smile is genial and commiserating; Kiyoomi doesn’t know how much his father knows about Atsumu and Kiyoomi’s intentions, but the man only nods at him and walks past them with a bag in each hand. “Now,” Kiyoomi snaps his head back towards her. “Shall we have some tea? I always forget how long the trip takes.”

It’s hell holding back in his sigh, but he manages. He follows her as she heads to the kitchen, and then gets told to sit down while she rummages around the pantry, deftly making two cups of tea for both of them, which means his father won’t be joining them and saving him from this conversation.

The questions he’d expected from their conversation earlier in the week finally come, and he tries his best to not flush with every single answer his mother draws out of him. Sakusa Asuka shoots him questions about Atsumu, ranging from his name, (“Oh, you call him by his first name?” “He has a twin and practically demanded me to do it,”), his age, (“He’d just turned twenty-five the other week,”) and how he looks, (“Almost as tall as me, blonde,” “Kiyo-chan, that doesn’t explain anything!”) but in the end, he relents and shows her a photo they’d taken together during the twins’ birthday.

It goes about as well as he’d expected. “Oh, he’s such a handsome young man! I don’t blame you for liking him at all.”

_ “Kaa-san,” _ he groans, and she laughs, shrill and loud.

(He doesn’t want to admit how much he’d missed the sound.)

But her real reason for coming back home reveals itself in the next moment when she leans forward, cup of tea in her hand and a sharp look in her eye:

“Have you danced for him yet?”

Kiyoomi does his best to not shrink under her gaze, but considering Atsumu has been in the apothecary three out of four days over the past week and he hadn’t broached the topic, he’s pretty sure his mother is well aware of  _ hesitant _ Kiyoomi feels, despite already committing his mind to this decision.

“No,” he answers, more churlish than he’d intended, drinking the rest of his tea. “I’m still thinking of how to… To bring it up to him.” Never mind the fact that neither of them had explicitly talked about how they felt for each other, never mind the fact that Atsumu lingers in his space so much more and Kiyoomi hasn’t found it in him to push the other man away.

“Well,” Asuka hums, taking both of their cups to bring over to the sink, “You’ll find a way, Kiyo-chan. I know you’ve got work so I won’t keep you any longer, but I think your father wanted to have a look at the apothecary?”

It’s how Kiyoomi finds himself working side by side with his father an hour later—while the apothecary had belonged to his mother’s father, Sakusa Kazuya helped around at the shop almost as much as Kiyoomi had growing up, and it doesn’t take long for both of them to settle into a familiar routine.

The old, regular patrons coming in greet his father with shock and exuberance, welcoming him back, and the place is more livelier than Kiyoomi’s accustomed to, so he sticks to the back of the shop for the most part, content to let his father handle the customer service.

This also means he wasn’t prepared for when Kazuya sticks his head into the storeroom, his smile wide and curious.

“There’s a young man out here looking for a…  _ ‘Omi-kun?’ _ Is that you, Kiyo-chan?”

_ Oh gods, Atsumu. _

He doesn’t run back out, but it’s a near thing, and he winces when the edge of his wing smacks against the doorway—

“Omi-kun! Ya alright?”

There’s a grip on his forearm, but Kiyoomi’s too startled to even think about shaking it off; it disappears in the next second but Atsumu’s already spewing apologies, rambling, “Ah! Sorry, I didn’t mean ta—I just thought ya were gonna fall over or somethin’ and I just wasn’t thinkin’—”

And perhaps Kiyoomi isn’t either, because he reaches out to clasp Atsumu’s shoulder, effectively shutting the other man up.

There is so little space between their faces; this is the closest Kiyoomi has been to Atsumu, and up close, Kiyoomi is hit with the revelation that Atsumu has natural freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose, and honey-gold eyes blink up at him, the distance emphasising their slight height difference.

Somehow, Kiyoomi finds his words. “You’re talking too much.”

“Kiyo-chan,” and Kiyoomi curses internally, because how could he have forgotten about his father, standing mere feet away from both of them?

He hears Atsumu mumble  _ “Kiyo-chan?” _ under his breath, but takes the opportunity to straighten up, his hand lingering on Atsumu for a couple of seconds too long before he snatches it back.

When Kiyoomi turns around, Kazuya is watching them with a calm expression. “Sorry.  _ Tou-san, _ this is Atsumu. Atsumu, meet my father. My parents dropped by for a visit this morning.”

“I—oh! Nice ta meet ya, Sakusa-san,” Atsumu greets with a bow; when Kiyoomi glances down, Akari’s sitting beside his legs, watching Kiyoomi’s father curiously.

“Nice to meet you too, Atsumu-kun,” his father replies, and his smile tells Kiyoomi everything he needs to know about what his mother had said. He sighs, and his father’s smile grows just a little wider. “Are you a friend of Kiyo-chan’s?”

Atsumu lifts his head, glancing at Kiyoomi. “Yeah, well, I think so?”

Kiyoomi exhales wearily again.

“He was a pretty suspicious customer in the beginning,” Kiyoomi explains, lips twitching up when Atsumu regales him with a betrayed look, before relenting, “But yes, we… We’re quite close now. Atsumu’s been teaching me how to cook over the last few months, actually.”

“Really?” his father says with obvious surprise, looking at both of them. “Then I’m glad someone as reliable as Atsumu-kun is looking after our Kiyo-chan.”

He doesn’t even get a chance to tease Atsumu about being reliable before the warlock stutters out, “I, uh, it’s—it’s no problem at all, Sakusa-san. Omi-kun’s a pretty fast learner anyways and he bakes real nice treats, so it’s not like either o’ us are goin’ hungry.”

Kazuya starts asking Atsumu about the recipes he’d taught Kiyoomi, and it leaves Kiyoomi to quietly observe their interactions as he busies himself at the counter. Akari hops over to accompany him, and he pets her ears for a little while, watching his father and Atsumu talk about food and art and Atsumu’s travels.

Even from a distance, Kiyoomi can hear the way Atsumu’s accent has grown unmistakably stronger, so when a customer comes in asking for a specific item and Kazuya offers to look for it, Kiyoomi takes the opportunity to head over to Atsumu, taking in the faint pink hue in his cheeks with confusion.

“What’s up with you?”

Atsumu’s brows are furrowed, but he doesn’t meet Kiyoomi’s eyes. “What do ya mean?”

Kiyoomi crosses his arms, weirdly feeling out of the loop. He’s not jealous of his own father, is he? “You’re flushed, and you haven’t stopped talking at all since you entered the shop. Are… Are you nervous?”

And he thinks he’s nailed it, because the pink darkens, but then Atsumu begrudgingly turns his head to look at Kiyoomi, and responds with, “Did anyone ever tell ya that you look a lot like yer pa?”

_ Ah. _

Stupidly, it’s Kiyoomi’s turn to blush; he clears his throat before answering, “Some people have, yeah.” Kiyoomi gets his height, his curls and much of his demeanour from his father, but he’d also inherited his mother’s stubbornness, cautious nature and the moles on her skin that form into splotches of colour during her shift form. He can see how Atsumu thinks he resembles Kazuya. “Why’s that bothering you, though?”

Atsumu’s frown is made more endearing when he steps closer, almost as close as when he’d grabbed Kiyoomi’s arm.

“Omi-kun, ya can’t be  _ that _ dense,” he demands, and Kiyoomi nearly gets distracted by the god damned freckles again. “Ya—” Atsumu halts, searching for something in Kiyoomi’s expression, what little of it he could see that’s not hidden by the mask. “Yer an ass,” he says flatly, shoulders drooping. “‘S a wonder why I like—”

He stops there, immediately turning away but Kiyoomi hears it anyway.

“Atsumu,” he says, a sudden urgent need to rectify whatever might have caused Atsumu to look so dejected overcoming him in that moment. Kiyoomi’s father has emerged from the storeroom and is speaking to the customer, but he tunes their conversation out in favour of focusing on the man in front of him.

“What, Omi-kun?” Atsumu sighs, sounding far more defeated than Kiyoomi wants him to be.

It propels him to grab Atsumu once more, this time with gloved fingers gently circling around Atsumu’s wrist, causing the warlock to look at Kiyoomi in confusion, eyes snapping back and forth between their hands and Kiyoomi’s face. His wings come up to shield both of them from the rest of the apothecary, and all he wants to do is to remove that scowl from Atsumu’s face.

It dawns on Kiyoomi then, that perhaps it's time to really be transparent about his intentions. Atsumu deserves it, after all.

"Would you like to join my parents and I for dinner tonight?"

Atsumu’s jaw drops.

“Omi-Omi,” he breathes, but nothing else leaves his lips and desperation begins to tear at Kiyoomi, making him tighten his grip on Atsumu a little more. The flutter of his wings nearly distract him, but he grits his teeth and says:

“I told them about you,” Kiyoomi starts, and gods, everything in him is screaming to look away from the other man’s gaze but the slowly blooming look of understanding in Atsumu’s expression anchors him, coaxing him to push the rest of the words out. “And… And it would mean a lot to me, to have some of the closest people in my life get to know one another.”

He’s not even lying, because it had only taken Atsumu mere months to nestle inside the parts of Kiyoomi that he’s not shown anyone in years, bringing the warmth of a well-loved home into Kiyoomi’s thoughts and all Kiyoomi wishes for in this very moment is the right to knock on that door, hoping to be let inside.

Finally, after what seemed like a moment in eternity, Atsumu flashes him a smile, his arm slack in Kiyoomi’s hold as he tilts his head to the side in a move so reminiscent of Akari. “I don’t know, Omi-kun. Did ya tell ‘em bad things about me?”

Relief slams into him like a truck, and Kiyoomi swipes a thumb on the inside of Atsumu’s wrist, lips twitching at the shudder he feels. “Only the worst,” he assures, and is rewarded with the sight of Atsumu throwing his head back in laughter, a stark contrast from how his demeanour had been a couple of minutes ago.

Kiyoomi lets him go then, taking a step back, deliberately breaking the bubble they’d somehow formed around them. “So I’ll see you then?”

Atsumu immediately answers, “Y—yeah, I’ll be there,” the corners of his lips curled up, fingers trailing his other wrist, like he’s trying to replicate the feeling of Kiyoomi’s touch. Then his eyes widen, horror crossing his features. “Wait, by the gods, Omi-Omi, why didn’t ya say this earlier? How am I gonna find a gift to bring in time?!”

“You don’t have to—” Kiyoomi tries, but Atsumu cuts him off with a violent shake of his head.

“There’s still a couple o’ hours, so if I hurry now maybe I’ll find somethin’ decent,” he groans, and before Kiyoomi can even try to reassure him, the warlock’s already heading straight for Kazuya, bidding him goodbye with a bow and telling him, “I’ll see ya at dinner, Sakusa-san!” before disappearing out of the door in a rush, Akari at his heels.

Kazuya blinks, adjusting his hold on the pot currently propped up against him, its vines curling around his arms. “So… What was that about?”

* * *

Kiyoomi isn’t  _ nervous. _

He’s not fidgeting with the edges of his wings, looking back and forth between the hallway and the front door from the doorway of the living room, his parents’ voices barely audible as he waits for—

The wards in his home shift, signalling the presence of someone at the door, and Kiyoomi is  _ not _ nervous.

“I’ll get it,” he calls out before either of his parents can check, and somehow his feet carry him over, until he’s sliding the door open and Atsumu’s right in front of him, looking strikingly handsome in a dressed-down version of warlock robes he’s seen Motoya wear on family occasions, and magik hangs around the warlock in the now-familiar form of freckled starry cheeks and ozone-and-peppermint. Akari sits on her haunches right beside Atsumu’s feet, head tilted up, and when Kiyoomi looks closer, Atsumu’s already put on the slippers Kiyoomi had given him to use the last time he came over.

Kiyoomi is not nervous, because Miya Atsumu is undeniably iridescent in the most magical of ways, and that is enough to convince Kiyoomi that this is the man he would love to dance for in the near future.

Before that can happen though, he’ll have to let Atsumu and Akari in.

_ “Ojamashimasu,” _ the warlock greets him, smiling, his cheeks lightly flushed. “Are ya gonna make us stand out here all night?”

Stars above, but Atsumu may very well prove to be his undoing at this point.

“Tempting, but I promised my parents someone will help finish off dinner,” Kiyoomi replies, thinking of the mini feast that his mother had whipped up in between him telling her about Atsumu’s presence for tonight and when he’d come home to the mingled aromas of meals from his younger days, as well as her swatting him with a wooden spoon when he’d arrived because, “Honestly, Kiyo-chan, for all of your  _ overthinking, _ sometimes you still end up not thinking things through—it’s a good thing your fridge is a lot more well-stocked than it was the last time we visited!”

And then he had to admit that it was mostly Atsumu’s doing, and gets another swat for that, before being shooed away from the kitchen, told to wash up and get ready for dinner.

He steps aside to let Atsumu and his familiar in, finally noticing the gleaming traces of magik dust on Atsumu’s hands. “Did you have a rush job after you left the apothecary earlier?” Kiyoomi asks, not expecting Atsumu’s flush from earlier to return, deeper and lovelier in that particular hue of crimson.

“No, ‘s just—uh, I was comin’ up with a gift for yer parents,” Atsumu explains in a rush, words stumbling over themselves as he rubs the back of his neck, causing the skin around his throat to sparkle with the dust. “I thought it’d be—it’d be nice, for them. Where are they, anyway?”

Curiosity tempts Kiyoomi to ask, but he pushes his thoughts aside and leads Atsumu and Akari to the last place he’d seen his parents: hip to hip beside each other as they arrange the frankly too many dishes on the dining table. They look up at the same time when Kiyoomi and Atsumu enter, and Kiyoomi hears Atsumu’s sharp inhale next to him, with Akari somewhat hiding behind Atsumu’s legs.

Kiyoomi clears his throat, doing his best to ignore his mother’s openly scrutinising expression, his father’s knowing grin. “Akari, Atsumu, these are my parents,” he bends down to pet the familiar’s ears, helpless to stop his smile when she butts her snout against his palm. When he straightens up, he makes sure to brush his wing against the edge of Atsumu's shoulders, an ungloved hand awkwardly but with as much gentleness as he could muster finding its grip on Atsumu's arm.  _ “Kaa-san, tou-san,  _ this is Atsumu."

He leaves it at that, because there is no possible way to encompass what Atsumu is to him in so very little time.

_ "Yoroshiku onegaishimasu," _ Atsumu says after a moment, bowing his head low.

Asuka walks forward, and when Atsumu lifts his head, she's reaching out to cup the edge of his cheek, the smile she graces only Kiyoomi and his siblings spreading wide across her face.

Something settles in Kiyoomi at the sight, and he shifts his hold on Atsumu, slipping one hand around the crook of his elbow.

"I'm so glad you're joining us tonight, Atsumu-kun," she replies, and when she pulls her hand back, there's a glimmer across her palm. "Akari as well," she adds, grinning down at the fox. "Kiyo-chan doesn't really talk about anyone new, so it was a lovely surprise to hear about you."

When Kiyoomi glances at Atsumu, he finds honey-brown eyes locked onto him already, foxgrin tamped down by an obvious shyness that Kiyoomi is still not accustomed to, but is looking forward to seeing more of. “He talks about you as well,” Atsumu says, before looking away to meet Asuka’s gaze once more. “Also, I—I brought something, as thanks fer dinner. ‘S not much, though, but if both of ya could come a little closer?”

Kiyoomi lets him go at the same time Kazuya walks forward, while Asuka takes a step closer, glancing at Kiyoomi with a raised eyebrow—he shrugs, noticing how the fox familiar is glowing now, fur bristling as if a gust of wind had just blown through the room.

Atsumu clears his throat, and brings his hands up before him. Specks of magik dust start to cluster together around his arms, flowing in a current Kiyoomi can’t begin to understand as Atsumu’s blonde hair gleams, casting a shadow across his features, a mixture of anticipation and apprehnsion.

And then he faces his palms towards Kiyoomi’s parents, stars emanating from his magik core beginning to surround both of them in a shower of pale gold, the same shade of Atsumu’s hair in the sun.

“A blessing fer both o’ ya,” he murmurs, closing his eyes, a content smile spreading on his lips. “May yer home be a light fer goodness, and may you both always have the hope o’ the lost, the joy o’ a child, and the strength o’ a true friend.”

His words drape around Asuka and Kazuya with intention, a weight of pure magik both of them receive with gladness, judging from how bright their grins are as they turn towards each other, Kazuya’s arm wrapped around his wife’s waist, Asuka leaning against his chest, giggling when some of the golden dust settles on her cheeks.

Kazuya presses a kiss against her head, and looks at Atsumu, somewhat misty-eyed. Kiyoomi wholeheartedly understands the feeling, because what Atsumu had given them was a privilege only given to a trusted few in a warlock’s eyes, especially one undoubtedly as powerful as the man beside him. “We accept your blessing, Atsumu-kun. Thank you for the gift—it’s more than we could have asked for.”

“Yer welcome,” he answers, finally bringing his hands down and crossing his arms behind his back—the childlike image is incongruous with the power Atsumu had just displayed, but Kiyoomi thinks it fits him well. “Sorry about the dust, though, promise they’ll disappear in a bit.”

Asuka waves a hand around, inadvertently flicking even more of the magik dust around, but Kiyoomi can see the way her lip wobbles slightly when she flashes a grin at Atsumu. “Don’t worry about it, please. Thank you, Atsumu-kun.” She inhales, and the atmosphere rapidly shifts into something a little lighter when she claps her hands together. “Now, shall we have dinner?”

She pats her husband’s chest once before turning back around to the table, and Kazuya nods his head at Kiyoomi and Atsumu, gesturing at them to get a move on as well.

“Come on,” Kiyoomi whispers, tugging at Atsumu’s arm once. “She’s not going to start until we’re all seated and ready.”

“I  _ heard _ that, Kiyo-chan.”

The dining table, which had only seen the likes of Kiyoomi, Motoya on occasion and recently, Atsumu, seems to groan under the weight of the food that Asuka had conjured up in a two-hour flurry for the four of them; Kiyoomi spies  _ nikujaga _ at one end, nearly obscured by the giant pot of  _ nabe _ taking the centerpiece, and the plethora of sushi rolls remind him of mornings spent making those for everyone’s packed lunches.

They take their seats, with Kiyoomi and Atsumu side by side facing Kazuya and Asuka, and somewhere in the recesses of Kiyoomi’s head, he tries to squash the thought that this dinner feels a whole lot like an introductory dinner for a partner—considering that might have been what Asuka may have had in mind.

His father leads in giving thanks for the meal, and they dig in after following suit; Kiyoomi can’t hold back a smile from hearing Atsumu’s pleased noises, complimenting his mother after swallowing his mouthful because somehow, he’d actually found his manners in front of Kiyoomi’s parents. Asuka laughs, tells him to eat some more, and dinner really begins when she turns her inquisitiveness onto Atsumu, who freely tells her about his life and work in between bites of the mouth watering dishes, with Kazuya chiming in now and then.

Warmth blooms in Kiyoomi’s chest and it has nothing to do with the temperature charm in his home and everything with the way Atsumu looks so at home sitting on a dining chair older than Kiyoomi, a grain of rice stuck on his chin and his eyes creased in laughter at something Kazuya said, something to do with Kiyoomi’s antics as a child. And when Atsumu turns those bewitching honey-gold eyes towards him with a beaming smile, Kiyoomi’s wings give the tiniest flutter in his direction.

The feeling grows when Atsumu offers to clean up, despite Asuka’s insistence that he didn’t need to as the guest, but then Atsumu says:

“‘M used ta it anyway, Omi-Omi ‘n I always take turns when we have meals together,” and Kiyoomi’s mother relents, but when Atsumu’s back is turned, she widens her eyes at Kiyoomi, very obviously mouthing, “What the  _ hell _ are you waiting for?”

He stifles a snort, wiping his expression blank when Atsumu glances at him curiously. 

It’s alright; Kiyoomi’s almost done waiting. “Go ahead and rest,” he nods at his parents, “I’ll help Atsumu and bring out some tea later.”

Asuka’s expression morphs into something resembling shock and glee, like she’s fully aware of where Kiyoomi’s thoughts are headed, and that simultaneously bolsters and agitates him enough to start carrying the dishes without another glance at either of them. 

When they finally leave, Atsumu steps closer to him, close enough that Kiyoomi’s feathers graze his arms.

“I’m okay to do this on my own, ya don’t have ta be here either, Omi-Omi,” he says, plates hovering over his palms, “Oh! Maybe ya can get started on that tea—”

“Atsumu, I—” Kiyoomi interrupts, swallowing when he can’t find the rest of his words. The bravado that had overcome him just a minute ago deserts him now, but in its absence is a soul-crushing need to finally let Atsumu know in the barest of terms how much he means to Kiyoomi in this very moment.

The warlock tilts his head. There’s a small smile playing on his lips, like he’s trying to hold back, unsure if he’s on the same path as Kiyoomi’s thoughts. “You?” he prompts after a few moments.

Kiyoomi belatedly realises he’s still got empty plates in his hands, and quickly places them aside before turning to Atsumu again, and starts with, “Do you know what it means for an avian halfling to dance for someone?”

Atsumu blinks, a wrinkle between his brows. “Vaguely,” he says slowly. “It’s… It’s somethin’ real important to them, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Kiyoomi replies with a nod. His wings are quivering, but he pushes on, because, “The only person my mother ever danced for was my father; she’d shifted for him and performed moves that… That only their other half were meant to watch, to see and to hold for the rest of their lives together.  _ That’s _ what it means for someone like us to dance, and…”

Kiyoomi inhales, eyes shut tight, before—

“You’re insufferable, and I worry about the reckless experiments you conduct sometimes with the things from the apothecary, and yet… You’re the one I want to dance for, Atsumu.” And then, because he feels like he might as well make it as clear as possible, “Because I… I’ve absolutely fallen for you.”

Silence greets him for a long, long while, and Kiyoomi clenches his jaw, steeling himself for the rejection he expects etched on the other man’s face, stomach plummeting at the thought.

But then something takes hold of his wrists, gentle and trembling and when he opens his eyes, he’s greeted with the sight of shimmering honey-gold and a bitten lower lip, Atsumu’s entire face blooming in a flush that only serves to bring out what little magik dust is left from his gift earlier.

“Gods above, Omi-kun,” he chokes out in a rasp, smiling so widely that Kiyoomi can only see slivers of his teary eyes. “Ya sure do know how to knock a guy off his feet with a confession like  _ that.” _

Wait, does that mean—

Atsumu shifts his grip, and Kiyoomi only watches, thunderstruck, as their fingers fit together seamlessly, glimmering with the evidence of Atsumu’s magik. “Yer not the only one completely head o’er heels,” he whispers, sealing Kiyoomi’s fate for good.

“I can’t wait ta see ya dance for me, Omi.”

With those words, Kiyoomi takes it upon himself to tug Atsumu that much closer, until all he can see is the quiet joy that overtakes Atsumu’s expression, bright and lovely and all for Kiyoomi. He lets go of one hand, and chuckles lowly when he catches Atsumu’s slight pout at the action, but it disappears instantly when Kiyoomi reaches to cradle a strong jaw against his palm, heart melting when Atsumu  _ nuzzles _ into it.

He strokes the edge of Atsumu’s cheek, distracted for a moment by how gorgeous Atsumu looks under his hand. “Soon,” he promises in a hushed voice. “I’ll dance for you soon. But for now…” His gaze flickers all around Atsumu’s face. “I’d like to kiss you. Is that alright?”

“I—yeah,” Atsumu exhales in a rush, face tilted up and eyes falling close, but Kiyoomi grins, and brushes aside a lock of hair before pressing one long kiss against Atsumu’s forehead.

When he pulls back, Atsumu’s wrinkling his nose, obviously biting down on a grin.

“Wasn’t what I meant, Omi-kun.”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes. “Greedy,” he chides, and Atsumu narrows his eyes, before his expression smooths out.

“‘Course,” he agrees, and Kiyoomi has a second to wonder where he’s going with this, but Atsumu adds, “I want everythin’ ya got fer me, Kiyoomi, dance and all,” and gods above, it takes everything in Kiyoomi to remind himself that his parents are mere feet away, that they still have chores to do that Atsumu had volunteered for, that there will be time to show Atsumu what  _ everything _ truly means.

For now, he contents himself with another brush of his lips on Atsumu’s cheek, helplessly smiling when he feels Atsumu giggling.

Somehow, they manage to separate themselves—not that Kiyoomi stays far away enough that his wings won’t be able to touch any part of Atsumu if he reaches out with them. It’s how they get through the clean up, and when they’re waiting for the tea to be ready, Atsumu finds his way back into Kiyoomi’s arms, now full of questions about “What kind of dance is it, Omi-kun? Are ya gonna be flyin’?” and “Do I have to do somethin’ too?”

Kiyoomi fields them with short, succinct answers, but also says, “It’s better if I show it to you,” and then gives into Atsumu’s demands for more kisses, “As compensation fer makin’ me wait.” He leaves them all over Atsumu’s face, relishing in the soft laughter that escapes Atsumu at his frankly silly, sappy actions.

When they eventually emerge out of the kitchen, they find Kiyoomi’s parents in the living room, watching them closely. He doesn’t say anything, and the next half an hour is spent with Asuka regaling Atsumu with more stories, shifting into her cockatoo form at one point to his and Akari’s utter delight. But later, when he’s about to walk them both to the front door, Asuka reaches for his arm and says softly enough for only both of them to hear, “I’m so happy for you, Kiyo-chan.”

He blinks down at her, and she pats his arm one more time, smiling as she turns to bid her own farewell to Atsumu and Akari.

At the door, Atsumu lifts a hand, eyes glancing between Kiyoomi’s face and his wings. “May I?” he asks quietly.

At Kiyoomi’s nod, Atsumu grins, and reaches up to stroke the edge of Kiyoomi’s wing, feeling the feathers he’d preened just over a month ago. His careful touch causes shudders to erupt across Kiyoomi’s back, the sensation a pleasant wash of warmth all over him, and he finds himself cupping Atsumu’s face once more; this time, his thumb strokes the edge of Atsumu’s full bottom lip, and his mouth hovers over Atsumu’s, just barely brushing against each other.

It’s when Atsumu lets out a soft noise, tugging at the wing he still has in his hold and whines,  _ “Kiss me, Omi-kun,” _ that Kiyoomi finally lets himself discover how Atsumu tastes, angling his face to slot their mouths together, tightening his grip on the other man’s jaw just enough to get another one of those noises to escape Atsumu.

Their first kiss ends with Kiyoomi breaking away first, but their second and third kisses begin with Atsumu shifting until his hands are holding onto Kiyoomi’s shirt, pulling him back down for more, more,  _ more, _ with only the moon above as witness to their exploration of each other’s mouths for the next gods know how many minutes.

* * *

Mid November is definitely verging on a little too cold for flying in the mountains, but Kiyoomi has attempted flight in worse weather conditions.

And when he completes the ritual courting dance, the one that tells Atsumu in swerving spins and sharp twists the depth of Kiyoomi’s feelings and intention, he’s greeted with Atsumu’s tearful smile and warm, open arms, with Akari yipping excitedly around them.

As he burrows his face into Atsumu’s neck, gloveless, maskless, barefoot and wings still spread wide behind him, Kiyoomi discovers the entirety of the world condensed into the hold both of them have on each other, and it feels like the same magik that is as old as the stars that adorn Atsumu’s features and propels Kiyoomi to the skies have brought them both together as well, and he thinks nothing else could be more fantastical than this man pressing kisses against his temple, whispering over and over:

_ “Dance with me fer the rest of our lives, Kiyoomi.” _

And Kiyoomi looks forward to establishing that as yet another routine in his life, with Atsumu by his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted omi's mother to have a name that linked back to flying, but I admit, "sakusa asuka" is definitely a mouthful
> 
> I hope you enjoyed my offering of the "omi is a sap" agenda and this fantasy au take on soft sakuatsu!


	3. light to my soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snippets of Atsumu’s perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wrote an additional chapter for skts fluff week!
> 
> Day 2 | Fantasy AU

When Atsumu returns from his first trip to the town’s apothecary, mind buzzing with the sight of huge, majestic ebony wings, a scowl visible through a black mask and dark eyes watching his every move, he’s already decided that visit was not going to be his last one.

He tells Osamu this when he takes out his purchase on the dining table and nearly gets a spatula thrown at his face.

“Why the everloving  _ fuck _ do you have a hemlock plant?!”

Atsumu, because he’s had nearly twenty-five years of practice dealing with Samu’s tendency to throw shit at him, simply snaps his fingers to direct the spatula’s direction into the sink beside him, but that doesn’t stop him from yelling, “Oi, if ya break anythin’ I’m tellin’ Ma and Kita-san!”

“Hah? Then I’m telling them you’re brewing up dangerous shit in the study room, idiot!”

They come to an equally unsatisfying conclusion after a round of spatula throwing nearly causes the hemlock plant to fall into the broth Osamu had been making for their dinner, but afterwards, Atsumu explains where he’d gotten his the plant, how he was probably scammed because no way in hell was that market price, only to be told by Osamu that, “That’s exactly the average market price, asshole,” and about the halfling that manned the apothecary.

Osamu frowns at him from across the table, cheek stuffed full with rice and mumbles through his mouthful, “Yer not gonna bother ‘im, are ya?”

Gods, why do people constantly think Atsumu was the twin with lesser manners? “I ain’t botherin’ anyone, and I’m a payin’ customer!” His eyes glance over towards the hemlock plant safely out of reach, placed on the counter, and wonders if the handsome, but incredibly standoffish halfling would be opposed to selling him some of those monkshood stuff he’d read about in one of Osamu’s books.

* * *

For someone so tall, Sakusa seems to forget about his own bulk, hiding most of his figure under those wings of his.

Unfortunately for him, Atsumu has not seen anyone else in the town with such glossy, black feathers tipped with a bright yellow that reminds him of too-bright sunlight and the marigolds Kita-san had planted one summer in his backyard, so it only takes him a couple of seconds to decide on talking to Sakusa in the middle of the grocery store. 

He nearly retracts back his offer for dinner when Sakusa practically accuses him of murder—why in the names of the gods is this man so dramatic—but dinner had turned out to be surprisingly…  _ Nice. _

Sakusa isn’t as quiet as he first appeared to be, readily answering Atsumu’s questions about the town that he and Osamu are still getting used to, but only after Atsumu had almost put his foot in his mouth when Sakusa finds out that he had been recovering from a very minor injury (it really wasn’t his fault that he’d mistaken the measurements by ten ounces and the potion exploded all over him). The rest of the meal goes swimmingly in contrast, and Atsumu learns that Sakusa’s brownies might taste even better than his own mother’s cookies, but he’ll never tell her that.

Cooking is Osamu’s  _ thing, _ but Atsumu also finds joy in seeing other people’s faces light up when they taste the meals he make, and Sakusa is no different; he hadn’t missed the slight widening of Sakusa’s normally sharp eyes when he’d taken a bite of the curry, and at the end of the night the only reason why he pushes Sakusa to take home the leftovers is because he keeps thinking about Sakusa’s concentrated frown while perusing the ramen aisle, wings drawn around his body, that’s all.

* * *

Atsumu hadn’t realised just how much magik he’d used exorcising that stupid curse two towns away until he gets back home, absolutely dripping in golden dust, Akari glowing brightly at his feet.

It’s four in the afternoon when they step through the  _ genkan, _ the wards letting Atsumu know that Osamu had gone off to meet one of his clients. He doesn’t really feel bad about leaving magik dust everywhere because they’d eventually disappear, but the adrenaline high from the job is still coursing through him, and the warm shower he takes only seems to wake him up further instead of sending him to sleep like he’d hoped.

He glances down at Akari, whose glow has finally faded in the hour since they’d returned home. “Akari-chan,” he says, earning him a yip from the fox. “Ya think Omi-kun would kick us out if we showed up at his shop all dusty and shit?”

It doesn’t take the fox’s answering bark to remind Atsumu of Sakusa’s aversion to all things dirt and grime and  _ mess, _ so he digs up a mask from the time he’d had to brew an acid resistance elixir that stunk to the high heavens, putting it on before making the familiar trek towards the apothecary. His gait is a little off-balanced, fatigue hanging heavily on his shoulders, but soon enough he’s pushing through the door, unable to keep himself from smiling when he catches Sakusa standing at the counter as usual.

The smile disappears pretty quickly when Sakusa starts interrogating him about the mask, and his exhaustion that must be a lot more obvious that he’d thought, and then Atsumu’s pulling his mask down, wincing slightly when he catches sight of the dust escaping from the confines of the mask to land on the counter and the floor.

He starts rambling, trying to reassure Sakusa that the dust would be gone and he needn’t worry, but then Sakusa tells him:

_ “If they eventually fade away, it’s fine. You don’t have to wear the mask.” _

And all Atsumu hears is:

_ “You’re fine. The mess is fine. There’s no need for you to hide.” _

He doesn’t get to dwell on that before Akari’s wrecking havoc, brushing up against Sakusa without permission and he stares her down right on the counter, silently warning her that people have  _ boundaries _ and  _ you can’t just slam into them like an overeager pup and what if he doesn’t let us in here anymore, what’ll we do then? _

Akari’s nose twitches.  _ But he does! And you like him too! _

Sakusa  _ tolerates _ them, Atsumu corrects her, bringing his arms up to further hammer in the point.  _ And we can’t bulldoze over everythin’, not if we want him to let us in a little more.  _ His familiar yips back at him, but Atsumu has learned through almost a lifetime of having her by his side that she really is more bark than bite, so he merely sighs when she disappears, only to reappear somewhere next to Sakusa. 

He’d had thought that was the end of the commotion, but not long after that Sakusa’s shoving tea and honey in a bag, practically shooing Atsumu away from the apothecary with a frown that Atsumu is too hesitant to call  _ worry.  _ But he takes the bag, tries his best to convey his gratitude because all he’d expected from Sakusa for the evening was some inane conversation, a sarcastic comment or two about his latest purchases, maybe even a disgusted look at the trail of magik dust that is taking so much longer than usual to disappear—

And what he’d gotten was a cup full of warm, dreamless sleep later that night, the last thought of his head an image of Sakusa’s slight nod as he’d left the apothecary.

* * *

When he’d volunteered to accompany Sakusa, he hadn’t expected  _ this. _

To be graced by a sight that must only have been seen by Sakusa’s dearest—so out of sorts with the image of Sakusa all covered up behind the counter in his apothecary, or even during their shared dinners, where the mask is only taken off when there’s food before him.

This Sakusa is a vision from the days when gods used to roam the earth, beasts only tamed by the nature that they control in turn; pale skin on display, fingers grazing the outstretched wings casting a shadow over his imposing figure, and the most godlike thing that Atsumu’s mind could construe out of the image standing before him: the wide, reckless grin on Sakusa’s handsome face, right before he turns around and  _ leaps off of the side of the cliff. _

A yell escapes Atsumu’s throat and he darts forward without thinking, Akari barking frantically behind him, seemingly glued to the backpack that Sakusa had entrusted her earlier. As he scrambles up the boulders, Sakusa’s laugh from when he’d jumped rings in his ears and he doesn’t—he’s not worried, he knows Sakusa can absolutely handle himself but  _ he just needs to see— _

And as if the gods had heard his thoughts (they seldom do), inhumanly large wings, obsidian and magnificent, appear all of a sudden before him and he watches Sakusa take to the skies like he belongs right there, ethereally majestic in a way that unfailingly reminds Atsumu that magik is  _ real. _ That it exists eternally in every scrap of attention Sakusa deigns to grant him, with lingering gazes and quiet thoughts and constant back-and-forths, and on this mountain peak, where Atsumu is grounded to the earth, he is stillmore struck by the magik of Sakusa’s dance among the pink morning clouds.

* * *

Sakusa’s wings are softer than they look.

What little of his back Atsumu can see is undeniably strong and muscled, thanks to the years of flight borne by that body, and despite the gloves, Atsumu can still feel the weight of every single feather as he runs his fingers through them, all too aware of the miniscule distance between their bodies.

He’d uttered the gravity of a warlock’s promise to ease the tension in Sakusa’s shoulders, but he stands by it, carefully combing through the halfling’s wings in front of him.

Atsumu has had months to learn how to take care of Sakusa’s physical hunger, to measurable success.

Perhaps he and Akari will also be given the privilege to learn how to satiate the glaring touch starvation Sakusa carries in his very bones.

* * *

An array of potions and tonics greets Atsumu when he finally opens the intricate wooden case that Sakusa had gifted him, not unlike the one that Sakusa had for his preening routine, long into the night after the birthday dinner had ended, farewells to his oldest friends still hanging in the air, buoyed by the magik lanterns he’d conjured earlier that day. Some of them glow in the darkness of his bedroom, but it’s the note taped to the other side of the case that makes Atsumu snort, even as something tears open at his heart.

_ “Atsumu, _

_ Because you can’t seem to stop yourself from making potions, I thought you might want some accurate samples to gauge your current progress. _

_ They’re all labeled, of course. _

_ Happy birthday, again. Thank you for inviting me. I hope you enjoyed tonight. _

_ Sakusa Kiyoomi.” _

He turns to rub his cheek against Akari’s fur, who’d materialised on his lap as he was reading the note, nosing at the colourful vials in the case.

“Omi-Omi’s such an asshole, huh?” Atsumu murmurs into her ears, placing the note aside and picking up one of the potions, sighing at the label. “He’s all prickly and mean, but he does shit like this—do ya know how hard it is ta find flu ‘n cold resistant tonics these days? Most people just chug some vigor brew ‘n hope for the best but—”

Akari turns around to face him, snout pushed into the crook of his neck and he laughs wetly, placing one arm around her body to pull her close. 

_ Feels like Omi-kun’s taking care of you too. _

He hums, looking over at the rest of the tonics, wondering what else Sakusa had managed to pack into the case.

“‘S just… He’s gotta know, right? That I...”

* * *

Atsumu can’t stop wondering what it would be like to grow and grow old next to Sakusa, not when the literal image of an older Sakusa Kiyoomi is currently talking to him, albeit maskless and wingless, eyes lined with years and laughter, his voice softer than his son’s normally brusque tone.

Sakusa Kazuya is kind and seems to be genuinely interested in listening to Atsumu’s stupid stories about his work, asking questions about the towns he travels to and the people he meets. Somehow they find a mutual connection when Sakusa-san reveals that his family and Kita-san’s great-grandfather used to work the lands together in Hyogo, and it’s nice, but Atsumu’s somewhat distracted because he’s struck with the realisation that he’s unconsciously trying to  _ impress _ Sakusa-san and the gods sure do enjoy his misery, don’t they?

When he tells Sakusa, “Did anyone ever tell ya that you look a lot like yer pa?” he’d half-expected the other man to be flustered, mumbling his agreement after the weeks and months they’d taken to get to this point where Sakusa doesn’t seem to mind Atsumu’s touch on him, but he certainly doesn’t expect Sakusa to play dumb like he doesn’t  _ see _ how much this is affecting Atsumu, and that drives a sudden spike of rage and terror, because what if it’s all  _ useless— _

He freezes when a strong grip circles his wrist, the same one that had clutched his shoulder earlier.

There’s a manic look in Sakusa’s eyes, and perhaps the way his wings seem to tower over both of them should bring evoke some sort of fear, but Atsumu only sees a man as terrified as him, finally taking the next ten steps in one fell swoop before either of them had so much as said—

* * *

Perhaps it’s too soon to say it, so when Sakusa declares his feelings in a well-loved kitchen, his parents literal feet away in the living room, it takes everything in Atsumu to stop himself from yelling:

_ I love you I love you I love you in all the ways that the skies are in love with your wings I love you in every single thought I have about you I love you like the gods had created me to with every element of my sad pathetic being  _ **_I love you so fucking much Sakusa Kiyoomi_ **

And so he only manages to choke out, “Yer not the only one completely head o’er heels,” anticipation eating him up from the inside at the very thought of Sakusa Kiyoomi as he performs a dance as old as the gods just for him.

* * *

Kiyoomi kisses with slow, tender and gradual purpose built into every press of his lips against Atsumu’s mouth, much like the way Atsumu had fallen for him.

* * *

Atsumu doesn’t say “I love you” yet on the morning that the love of his life dances in the skies for him, but he whispers, “Dance with me fer the rest of our lives, Kiyoomi—”

And he knows Kiyoomi still hears those three words clear as day anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's it for this 'verse. atsumu and omi's dynamics in this fic hold a very dear place in my heart, and I'm so happy to hear people loved them too.
> 
> thank you so much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> the next chapter should be out within the coming week, but in the meantime I hope you enjoyed this one!


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